


Deaf Group

by Violet_Jones



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe, American Sign Language, Anxiety Disorder, Deaf Character, Deaf Ian Gallagher, Deaf Mickey Milkovich, Depression, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Drug Addiction, Shameless Big Bang, Slow Burn, Therapy, Writer!Ian, coder!Mickey, it's really not as sad or angsty as it sounds i promise, it's still me and it's still funny and cute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:41:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24519367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violet_Jones/pseuds/Violet_Jones
Summary: Mickey is a former addict that happens to be deaf. He meets Ian, a depressed writer, while attending a court-mandated group therapy program for deaf people with mental health and addiction issues. Their friendship slowly builds to something significant that neither have ever experienced before, with lots of laughter, tears, and empathy along the way.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 228
Kudos: 248





	1. Week One (Three)

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhhhh... here's my Big Bang entry for 2020. Just wanted to say that I thought a lot about tackling this subject matter before I started writing it, and that a lot has gone into making sure that it's as realistic and sensitive as possible, coming from a non-deaf person. Mickey is still Mickey, and a lot of his thoughts and comments don't necessarily line up with Deaf Culture ideals and sentiments, so I asked a couple people with more hands on experience with hard of hearing individuals to help me read through it and give me context and suggestions for little things here and there, as well as ideas for character backgrounds having to do with their hearing loss. Luckily, none of my instincts for deaf Ian or deaf Mickey have been completely off thus far according to them, so I honestly hope not to offend anyone, and that this story is a positive representation of deafness, with that aspect being completely secondary to the rest of the story, which is more deeply about mental health struggles and friendship above anything else. 
> 
> So, thank you to the eternally wonderful [LanJevinson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LanJevinson) (I presume) for her ideas and support, and to the delightful [milkymickeyway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkymickeyway) for the comments and suggestions.
> 
> And a gigantic thank you to my lovely artist for this round, [AnotherGallavichLove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherGallavichLove), who made an adorable video trailer for the fic:
> 
> [WATCH IT HERE!](https://streamable.com/32is4d)

Mickey Milkovich scowled up at the building front so hard, a hearing person might be able to register the disdain and dread he felt as if it were a scream. In fact, Mickey probably would scream if he weren’t worried about attracting unwanted attention. He definitely felt a fully formed scream hiding somewhere in the back of his disused throat, but the whole point of his contempt in the first place was the laundry list of reasons he didn’t want to expose himself to anyone, at any time, for any reason. Drawing the concern of strangers now would be counterintuitive.

He threw his head back in a deep sigh, closing his eyes as he wiped a jittery hand down his face, trying to steel himself for the night to come. He checked the time again, squared his shoulders, and took one last drag of his cigarette, before stomping it out and walking inside. He couldn’t show up late. He had no choice in the matter.

There was no one working reception at that time of night, but there were big, obvious signs with arrows pointing him through the building to the room he needed to be in. He followed them to a small, basic room with way too bright overhead lights and cushioned folding chairs lining the walls in a kind of semicircle. There were five dudes already there, and one chick. He scanned the rows for a spot with empty chairs on either side, and threw himself down in his selection a little too harshly, like some bratty teenager. He squinted up at the offensive lighting, shielding his eyes from their harsh glare with one hand, wishing he had his sunglasses on him, because this was already too assaulting on the senses.

A handful of other people slowly trickled in, and finally some old, beardy guy with a clipboard and a coffee thermos took the front-and-center seat and began signing customary greetings at people he recognized, then basic introductory bullshit for newcomers like Mickey. Even though he had no interest in paying attention, he had to, lest he miss something that could impede him from getting the signatures he needed on his paperwork.

“I see one, two, _three_ new faces this week. We’ll all introduce ourselves and say why we’re here. I’ll pass around a sign-in sheet. Please fill it out completely along with your signature, or I won’t have you registered as having attended this group. If you need anything from me in terms of documents or sign-offs for doctors, lawyers, judges, parole officers, what have you, come see me before you leave tonight. My name is Martin, and this is Derek.” The counselor gestured to the guy closest to his left.

Mickey's nerves boiled up again, his stomach tightening at the thought of having to announce himself to all these strangers in a few turns. His right leg began bouncing restlessly, and he chewed on the corner of his thumbnail to distract himself. He didn’t really care what anyone’s name was, because he never remembered that kind of thing anyway, but he was reluctantly curious about the reasons why other people were there, so he vaguely paid attention. For the four people ahead of him, it seemed the reasons were bipolar mania and depression, alcohol, heroin, and alcohol again. Then all eyes turned to him, and another ripple of deep discomfort vibrated through his body.

He bit his lip and looked at the floor before sitting up straighter and moving his idiotically tattooed hands. “I’m Mickey. 32. I do freelance computer coding. Court-ordered to be here for 12 weeks. Used to use… a bit of everything. So, ex-addict, alcoholic, and all that shit.”

“What event led you to being ordered to be here?” Martin asked.

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Relapsed and went to a bar. Got in a fight. Cops don’t like me, so I got pinched.” He crossed his arms tightly, gripping at his own biceps, and hoped that was enough of an indicator that he was done talking.

It seemed to do the trick, and they moved on to the next person. Mickey’s eyes dropped to the floor again, and when he glanced back up, they caught a redhead’s across the room. His eyebrows lifted of their own accord as his brain sent completely unexpected ‘ _that guy’s hot_ ’ signals down into the rest of his body. He had pleasantly angular features, an athletic frame, and wore hearing aids in each ear. Mickey tongued the side of his lip, which was a tick of his in flustering situations. The guy’s gaze was pretty impenetrable, so he had no idea what effect he was having in return, but the stare lingered just a little too long before they both looked away.

Mickey barely paid attention until they finally got down to Red himself.

“I’m Ian,” he spelled out. “Just turned 30. I’m a writer, and I have long-term depression with a side of anxiety.”

Mickey almost laughed, but managed to hold it in. Fucking _depression_? That’s it? Anxiety? The shit that everyone in their neighborhood grew up constantly experiencing and surrounded by? What a pussy.

This was why he didn’t want to be doing this dumbass group therapy crap to begin with… it’d just be a room full of fucked up addicts with barely any brain cells left, and a sprinkling of whiney little bitches who couldn’t cope with the harsh realities of the world, so they got sad and scared of everything, and wanted mother’s little helpers to cure them. God, he was in for a shit-ton of losers crying about their lives, probably. He wondered how many of them were the types to get capital O _offended_ when someone called them disabled or some other innocuous label like hearing-impaired. If he had to witness one more outburst about semantics he was gonna lose it.

Being deaf was all he knew, yeah, but seeing as 95% of people in the world could hear, he freely and safely admitted that no, his ears did not work properly. And yeah, he wished he could know what hearing was like. How could he not? It was a nearly universal experience he was denied. That was pretty fucking unfair. So if something as tiny as a word were enough to trigger his rage, he’d be completely unable to deal with the bigger picture and the tougher obstacles. He wasn’t one of those ‘Deaf Culture’ people, and he never would be. This Ian guy, hot or not, was probably a card-carrying member. He looked like an uppity, overly woke, white guy, almost out of place in this ghetto-adjacent community center. He could only imagine what lame non-issues contributed to him being so overwhelmed by the horrors of life on the South Side that he actually labeled himself ‘depressed.’

It’s not that Mickey wasn’t sympathetic to his fellow deaf hoodrats for having to put up with some of the shit they had to put up with, but he was pretty sure no one in here had him beat when it came to the sob stories they all brought with them. And okay, maybe snorting mountains of cocaine, shooting armfuls of heroin, and drinking handles of cheap whiskey like water were not the healthy ways of dealing with life’s problems, but whatever. Mickey was still alive, and the sadness of any of the trials and tribulations had not dragged him down until he was too far below to get up again.

Once the entire group had introduced themselves (and Mickey was really hoping he didn’t have to endure that shit every single week), Martin took the reins again.

“Raise your hand if it’s the first time you’ve participated in group therapy.”

Mickey raised his hand, and saw one other person had too.

“Raise your hand if this is your first experience interacting in a setting like this with an entire group of people that are hard of hearing.”

Mickey’s was the only hand up now, and he felt stupidly exposed by all the looks he got. The counselor even seemed to think he was some kinda leper, because his next words were to him alone, it seemed.

“Please wait your turn to share, and if you have any comments when it’s not your turn, raise your hand and we’ll get to you when it’s appropriate. Try to keep it respectful and non-judgmental if you have a piece of advice for someone else.” Martin turned to gaze around at the group again, before signing, “And let’s be welcoming to Mickey and any other newcomers that may have never been able to share a communal situation like this with everybody signing, also being aware that we will get people with all kinds of different mental health issues, which may include off-putting tics, or in some cases, extreme behavior in reaction to our sessions. Just stay as calm, cool, and collected as possible.” He fixed Mickey with another look, like he could see straight through to the grown-ass problem child he was. “Okay?”

Mickey gave a curt nod and stretched his legs out to cross them at the ankles. He felt like he was back in high school or something, sent to the In-School Suspension trailer to soberly reflect on his bad choices, when really he was just biding his time, pissed off at the boredom and pointlessness of it all.

He was too cynical and negative for this shit. You had to be a positive kind of thinker in order to make any progress in therapy, right? It was for, like, people who wanted to bring sunshine and rainbows into their shitty lives. Mickey wasn’t that fucking naive. If anyone could’ve really helped him with his outlook on life or his self-destructive coping mechanisms, surely it would’ve happened a long time ago. It was way beyond too late now. Not only did he not need help, he didn’t want it.

He knew he’d fucked up. Getting rowdy in public while he was three sheets to the wind, and letting some redneck provoke him into assault and battery was not the smartest thing he’d ever done. He was aware of that. He also knew he was lucky to only get 30 days jail time, given his record, maybe just a tiny bit begrudgingly grateful that he’d gotten an advocate from some disability coalition to appoint him an actual decent lawyer pro bono, so that he was able to cop this plea. Only a month inside, but if and only _if_ he completed this wack-ass waste of time program for sad, fuck-up, no-hearing, losers.

So maybe that’s what he should be focused on… being content with not being locked up. He was required to be here, but there were no cuffs on his wrists, or power-tripping guards to put up with, or prison hierarchies to contend with. He should be eating this shit with a big ol’ fucking smile on his face, quite frankly, but since when did he smile at something so contradictory to who he was.

It’d been a miracle to ever get sober in the first place. Yeah, he’d hit rock bottom. More than a few times in his life, really. But he never went crawling to some AA bullshit in some church, and he’d never had some sober companion to look out for him, and aside from what he had to do to comply with his insurance, he never talked to professionals. No. He’d gotten himself straight, _so to speak_ , simply by his own sheer force of will. Yeah, sometimes he got weak and triggered, and ended up intoxicated again, but for the most part, his self-discipline was pretty impressive.

Martin the counselor was signing about anxiety triggers, and “people, places, and things,” and some 12-step crap about dealing with cravings. Then he posed a question: “What methods do you use to avoid relapsing or panicking when stressors occur?”

The overall vibe in the room was very downbeat and sullen. Half the people looked a few steps away from death’s door, and pretty much everyone looked like life had definitely put them through the ringer. Everyone except Red over there. He wasn’t, like, smiling or anything, but he was the cleanest, most put-together of them all, and Mickey wondered again why he was even there with the rest of the undesirables. He frowned as he eyed the man for a few beats, averting his eyes immediately when he was caught looking.

The people sitting in order ahead of Mickey all said some variation of the same shit about coping… text a friend, text a family member, distract myself, watch TV, go to a meeting, play a game on my phone, exercise, breathe, blah blah blah… so Mickey just parroted some of that back when it was his turn, taken aback when Martin asked him for further details, unlike the previous people.

“Who do you reach out to when you need that support?”

Mickey shrugged, scratching at his brow with his thumb, his mouth opening and closing in thought.

“Do you have anyone you can talk to?” pressed the counselor.

Mickey rolled his eyes, before signing, “My sister.”

Martin nodded and smiled. “You can be honest with her?”

Their eyes locked for the first time, and Mickey felt slightly unsettled, like this guy was seeing straight through him or something. Like he thought he knew something about Mickey’s life, or who he was, and what he did or didn’t do. It was bullshit, and he raised his eyebrows really high as his hackles raised.

“Yeah.” He looked back down at the floor, and was thankful when they moved on to the next person.

This guy didn’t know him at all. Pretending to care was fucking stupid. Mickey knew he didn’t really mean it. Dude had probably been servicing this same rinky-dink program in this same run-down neighborhood for decades. He probably gave up on actually caring years ago. Too many people, not enough who wanna actually change, or be saved, or whatever the fuck. Too many disappointments, not enough success stories. Yeah, it was his first day, but Mickey’d been around the block. He could kinda see through this dude too. If he thought he was gonna “rehabilitate” Mickey, then good fucking luck to him. It’d just be one more red mark in his little therapist book.

He mostly zoned out for the rest of the session, and could barely even remember anything else he’d “shared” by the time he stepped out of the building 3 hours later. He’d had to linger behind for a bit so he get the counselor alone and get his official court forms signed, and he was jonesing for a cigarette real bad. Martin had eyed him up, but luckily hadn’t asked him any further questions as he reviewed and signed his stuff. Still, Mickey was certain he was in for some sort of lecture in an upcoming session. The man had informed him that a designated nurse at the clinic next door would be administering his intro questionnaire, checking his vitals, and collecting his piss for testing at the clinic next door the following day, and that he must arrive between 12 PM and 4 PM to complete it, or get booted. Tox screens were mandatory twice a week for the duration. Mickey rolled his eyes and agreed, and Martin pushed for him to come to the dining hall to shovel down whatever food they served as part of the program, but Mickey begged off. He was probably gonna be forced to do that soon too.

He walked back to his apartment briskly, lighting up a second cigarette after the first one burned out, because that was just the kind of mood he was in. Compulsory clinic visit aside, he tried to focus on the fact that he wouldn’t have to be subjected to group tomorrow. He had it every other day, weekends not included. For the next _three_ months. He sighed and picked up his pace.

He couldn’t wait to be embraced by the familiar space of his home, where he could just relax and be alone with his thoughts.

_Talk about wishing he could have a drink_.

  


  



	2. Week Four (Two)

One of the few things in Ian Gallagher’s life that made him glad to have gone deaf long ago was the sight of his wailing niece. Franny was out of her terrible twos, but the threes were not much better so far, and she seemed to almost enjoy pitching fits at the slightest toddler-level inconvenience. He stared at her warily, hearing aids turned decidedly off, waiting for her red face to unscrew, and her blue eyes to cease shedding tears. There wasn’t much else he could do when she got like that. She didn’t want to be held, and he couldn’t even really use calming words on her, because he couldn’t control the volume or pitch of his voice. She already knew some basic sign language, having grown up with Ian in the same household, but when she was like this, she was stubborn. Her eyes were squinted shut and her little hands were balled into fists. She might yell at her mom if she were home, but she wouldn’t make any effort to sign at Ian until she calmed down.

It was his least favorite aspect of babysitting, which he did a lot of since his sister lived with him and went to night school on top of her day job. Debbie was 22 now, and although the family had been ecstatic that she’d managed to graduate high school, without ever getting pregnant on top of that, she’d barely made it the entire post-graduation summer before she’d gotten knocked up anyway. Franny was born when she was freshly 19, no father in sight, and since Ian had been looking to move out of the family house and into his own place, but was reluctant to do so completely by himself, he’d invited Debbie to come along.

Their childhood home was crummy, cramped, and constantly teeming with people. Their other siblings always had significant others coming and going, sometimes with their own extra family members in tow, and then the eldest brother, Lip, had two kids of his own from different mothers, living in the house part time. Their eldest sister Fiona was still around, but pretty much checked out after too many years acting the matriarch from too early an age, only really caring for their youngest brother, Liam, anymore. That left Carl, just a couple years younger than Debbie, and prone to bringing legal troubles down on their heads. It was a madhouse at best, and Ian figured that a newborn baby deserved some calm if they could get it.

So they helped each other, him and Debs, and sometimes Ian felt like he was the Fiona to Franny… the close relative that wasn’t actually a parent, but stood in as one, because there was no one else to do it. Debbie really was doing the best he could, but she couldn’t do it all. It was too big a load to carry alone.

Once Franny’s sobbing trailed off into pitiful looking gasps, and puffiness, and beet red baby cheeks, Ian stood to swoop her into his arms and let her lay her curly head on his shoulder as he paced, patting and rubbing her back until he felt her breathing and heart rate normalize. They’d done plenty of activities that afternoon, it was time to let the TV take the reins, so he could zone out, and maybe get the kitchen cleaned.

He sat her down on the couch and said aloud, while still signing, “You feeling better now?”

She nodded warily.

“You want to eat some Cheerios and watch a movie?”

She nodded again with slightly more enthusiasm.

Ian’s lip quirked, and he put the remote in her small hand. “Pick one of your favorites.”

He turned his hearing aids back on and headed for the kitchen, thinking of another perk of his perpetual near-silence; he didn’t really get fed up with children’s tendencies to obsess over a handful of media they wanted to consume over and over and over again. He’d just turn off the closed captioning and do his own thing. Usually some kind of reading or writing. Debbie was forever exasperated with those same videos, and always trying to push new content on her daughter, who nearly always rejected it. Ian enjoyed the light drama of it all.

Once assured that Franny was content to sit and stare while shoveling cereal in her mouth by the fistful, Ian got some work in. Light cleaning to placate his sister, and historical research for the novel he was on the brink of drafting. He still hadn’t disclosed any of the ideas he was leaning toward writing about to anyone thus far. He wasn’t even completely sold on the genre he was aiming for on some days, but he was getting there. It was daunting to throw himself into such a massive project without any guarantee that he could sell it at the end. Not to mention, starting things and following through with them fully was really hard. His anxiety had a lot to say about it, and a lot to hold him back with.

For the last few years, he’d been marginally successful writing online content ranging from respectable opinion pieces to shameless clickbait, with many varieties in between. But it wasn’t exactly what he wanted to be doing for the rest of his life. He was tackling longer and longer forms of writing and getting more confident all the time, but his overall goal was so massive that it overwhelmed him. That was part of why he decided to undergo this outpatient therapy program. He was working on getting his shit together, and doing it alone was way too fucking hard. His family could sometimes be a good support system, but despite all the problems the rest of them had, none were of the mentally ill variety like Ian’s or their mother’s. They didn’t really know how to handle him, or what to say, and there wasn’t much they could do. It was just something he needed to figure out himself.

He’d started the search for meds again, and he fucking loathed the trial and error process. He was afraid it’d take months and he may still be shit outta luck. He couldn’t wait to see what fun side effects would inevitably overrun him, regardless of any positive results. But anyway, he was _trying_ , and that was the best he could do. It was something. And he was lucky to get into a program expressly for people like him. Not only was it one less hurdle to overcome in terms of his anxiety in group settings, but it allowed for open discussion of the nuances that came with mood disorders and addiction while deaf. It helped increase the levels of commiseration, he felt.

As he was copying and pasting important information to his notes on his computer, a message popped up from Debbie indicating that she’d be coming through the door in a couple minutes. Ian appreciated the way she’d adjusted to giving Ian these kinds of head’s ups. The chaos of people coming and going all the time at the Gallagher house used to overwhelm him sometimes. His daily life was so much more orderly now, which he hadn’t realized was something he needed until he had it.

Franny immediately latched onto her mother when she entered, and Ian smiled in greeting.

“Tantrum about an hour ago,” he signed, rolling his eyes. “Super annoying, but I think she’ll go down early tonight.”

“Thanks,” she signed back. “You heading out soon?”

Ian glanced at the clock in the upper corner of his laptop. “In 20 minutes.”

“Mind if I take a shower first?”

“Go ahead, I’m going like this.” He gestured to himself with a flourish.

She shrugged and sat Franny back down on the couch.

Ian looked down at himself, wondering if he was at least acceptable enough to appear in public. Seemed fine to him. He’d managed to drag himself into the shower yesterday, and he’d only been wearing his track pants and tee shirt since then. He checked his pits, and he didn’t smell. Deodorant was like the one toiletry he always remembered to use. He hadn’t really exerted himself physically. He may have sweated around the collar as he slept, but the shirt smelled fine to him too. All he had to do was slip his feet into the Vans by the door and keep walking.

As soon as Debbie stepped out of the steaming bathroom in her baby blue robe, Ian was on his feet. He kissed the curly orange top of Franny’s head and signed, “Later,” to his sister.

He was close enough to the community center that he could walk. There was also a bus line that would get him there maybe 5 minutes faster, but he was usually too anxious to wait around for it, so he didn’t. He lit up a cigarette when he got to the sidewalk and headed off.

There were a few dudes milling around outside when he got there, all with lit smokes between their fingers, looking in different directions. As he passed by, he inadvertently made eye contact with the new guy from the week before, almost startling at the intensity of the scowl he received when he maintained the gaze for just a touch too long. He shuffled forward a little faster and made his way inside, through the labyrinth of grim hallways, and into the blindingly lit sterile shabbiness of their meeting room.

Martin greeted him in a manner that was jovial for him, but restrained for most. He had an obvious soft spot for Ian, and although they didn’t always see eye to eye, he appreciated the support and attention. Maybe Ian wouldn’t get enough out of this program to have a proverbial “breakthrough,” but Martin was doing his best to give him some of the tools he needed to survive. At the very least, Ian had an outlet to get things off his chest that didn’t involve jotting them down to be packed away and never divulged to another living soul. Feedback, he was learning, could be pretty invaluable. Every once in a while, he could genuinely say that he hadn’t thought of something quite that way before. New perspectives always opened new doors, even if those doors only led to more empty rooms.

For whatever reason, Ian preferred to sit towards the end of the clockwise group circle, with only one or two people between him and Martin at the front. He supposed it was good to get a feel for what everyone else was talking about before it was his turn. Sometimes the topics were of great interest to him, and other times, he couldn’t care less, but always tried to come up with something to comment.

It was his fourth week now, and he was pretty much in the full swing of the program. He knew everyone, even if he didn’t really talk to most of them outside of this room, save for the few noobs from last week and the one they were about to start. At times, a person would show up for a single session or two, then disappear. He always wondered why they never came back. He’s pretty sure he could guess, but to him it felt like once he was in the door, he might as well stay the course. The first step was always the hardest, because it felt like an impossible leap. The steps that followed might suck a whole lot, but they were worth committing to once that leap was made.

Getting help was never a walk in the park for anyone, and when avoidance and procrastination were built into your disorder, which also included malformed habits and executive dysfunction, well, the hill sometimes felt insurmountable even before setting one foot on it.

So Ian took this group seriously, and he appreciated it when others did too. It was always painfully obvious when someone was only there because they were forced to be, either by some judge, or social worker, or fed-up wife. And a part of him resented the addicts being lumped in together with the mentally ill, just because they frequently went hand-in-hand. He felt like most addicts and alcoholics just refused to ever stay clean and would always find a way to justify relapsing. In three weeks, he’d seen it happen over and over with multiple people. It was sad, but it was also kind of annoying.

Okay, so maybe, despite not considering himself an alcoholic or a drug addict, it’s possible that the group had made him realize that once upon a time, he actually _had_ fallen into that category. He’d given everything up cold turkey ages ago, but he’d definitely had a good run of debauchery in his late teens and early twenties. Everyone around him at the time was totally fucked up too, so it wasn’t like anyone recognized they had a problem. It was just fun and partying. No long-term harm done. So he thought. But now he realized that all he’d been doing then was self-medicating in the only way he knew how. And that the way he knew was a destructive one.

Still, he felt like everyone had a lot of shit in their lives. “Life is difficult,” “people are strange,” “relationships are hard,” “timing is everything”… those were maybe the only four real things he’d ever learned about the world. And at some point you had to look at yourself and say, “Grow the fuck up.” And then you’d put away childish things, like getting fucked up every night of your life and pretending like everything was okay.

So he got judgmental at times when he felt like someone should obviously know better. There were so many desperate people in that room. And so many of them refused to take responsibility for all the things they’d gotten wrong. They put their faith in a higher power or whatever the fuck, and absolved themselves of the guilt, while destroying every last brain cell and organ left in their body. Ian never claimed to be perfect, and just maybe, considering who his parents were, he was allowed to be rubbed the wrong way by some of these people. No, he wasn’t going to be vocal about his opinions on the subject, but he quietly filed away his observations for elaboration in his written work.

The Monday session started with a recycled topic Ian had spoken on before. That sometimes happened, and you just had to roll with it. Positive reinforcement, he supposed. Anyway, this one was always oddly hard for him, since his mind was always jumping straight to the negative on a near-constant basis: “What are you grateful for?”

Martin had been on his ass about making daily gratitude lists, and Ian just could not comply. It's not that there wasn’t anything good in his life, and it’s not like he didn’t appreciate what he had, but listing it out like that… it felt fake… like he was pulling a buncha crap outta his ass and smearing rote platitudes on the page: “My family, my home, my physical health, my fucking smart phone, nature,” blah blah blah… It was like trying to force himself to suddenly don rose-colored glasses and describe everything through that unnatural lens. He couldn’t take it seriously, even though he desperately wanted to. He wished the easy things could work, and he could switch his overactive brain off, and just let the healing begin.

It didn’t work that way.

A handful of people went down the line signing about virtually the same crap… “Family, friends, house, car, books, sports, TV,” whatever. Then they got to that new guy who'd unnerved him outside. _Mickey_. He paused for a minute, his arms crossed in a sort of defiantly bored way, staring at some point on the floor, and Ian thought he might not end up replying at all, but then he raised his hands in gesture.

“That I’m still alive.”

Then he folded his arms back up with resolute finality, glancing briefly at their counselor, then back at the floor, and Martin moved on to the next girl.

Ian couldn’t seem to pull his gaze away. The guy just seemed so unused to expressing himself, and it was mildly impressive that he’d finally said something a little bit deep and daring, and most of all _honest_. Mickey was the definition of a bad attitude mandatory patient, but there was a spark there that didn’t usually come with his type when they were forced to piss in cups, and sit there for hours without smoking, trying to pay attention to people they didn’t give two shits about, and get their documents signed, and participate for points on their scorecard. It was something raw and intriguing.

Suddenly Mickey looked up from that oh so interesting spot on the floor, and leveled Ian with another death glare, so he gulped and quickly looked away, waiting his turn to rattle off some shit he cared about.

Mickey probably wasn’t that interesting, come to think of it. Ian was probably just bored.

  


  



	3. Week Three (Five)

Mickey was sweaty when he walked into group that night. He’d hit the gym for some training and hadn’t had time to shower before catching the bus to the center. He smelled pretty ripe, but he did his best to cover it up by spraying a massive amount of Axe on his pits and around his neck. He at least had the good sense to keep an extra T-shirt in his gym bag at all times, so he wasn’t soaked straight through or anything. And still, he found time to squeeze in a smoke before heading inside, because no way he was gonna make it in there without one.

He stashed his bag under his usual seat, and flopped down with his invisible armor up. A “chatty” meth-head with grizzled, scabby hands sauntered in, and Mickey averted his eyes, emanating strong ‘do not even fucking try to sit next to me’ vibes. Luckily, he was spared, sighing in relief when he sat in the opposite corner of the room. His eyes watered a bit, and he winced at the overheads, cursing himself for forgetting his damn sunglasses again. They really came in handy when he remembered to bring them. As long as no one laid their head back or nodded off, Martin didn’t care.

The session was kicked off with an easy enough topic: “Building good habits.” All Mickey really had to do was gesture to his gym bag and proudly proclaim that he was back to working out. Counselors always loved to hear about exercise routines. He’d also managed to clean his kitchen over the weekend. It was one of the worst experiences of his life, but he slogged through it, and it left him with a begrudging feeling of accomplishment. So when it was his turn, he found himself uncharacteristically excited to share. God, it was stupid, but he felt like he’d done good. And fuck him, was he eager to please this dude? This rag-tag bunch of lost causes? Was he… _comfortable_?

He looked around the room, pondering that unsettling thought. None of the people there interested him at all, really. There were certain cliques, mostly carved out by age group, but some kept to themselves like Mickey did. The only person who even slightly intrigued him was fucking Red over there in his usual spot. _Ian_. He still couldn’t figure him out. His stories were all over the place, and didn’t paint a really clear picture. He also talked about training, and writing, and went off on some tangent about taking care of his baby niece. Mickey still didn’t understand what exactly was so wrong with him. He was practically a saint compared to the rest of them. Maybe he was just some weird attention-seeker. Or maybe he was playing a part just to research his big novel that was sure to flop.

Everything had gone smoothly until the final hour. Mickey felt like he’d been walloped when Martin started expounding on the subject of grief.

His whole body tensed up and his throat got tight.

“Grief can be a powerful trigger for most people, and if you were never allowed to go through all the stages of grief after losing someone close to you, it could prevent closure and bleed into other aspects of your life going forward. So, navigating all the natural stages is important. Most of you have probably at least heard them talked about before: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. For the most part, the experience lasts between 3 to 6 months. When it goes on for longer than that, particularly the depression phase, and is extended for a year and beyond, we usually consider that complicated grief. That is always best handled by getting professional mental health assistance, usually a form of talk therapy. So, I know this is an unpleasant topic to talk about, and that it can bring painful memories to the surface, but it's something we all need to do sometimes. And considering the reasons that you’re all here in this program, it can be very helpful to explore. Let’s go around the room one last time and talk about a loss that impacted you, if in fact, you’ve lost someone.”

Mickey’s leg began bouncing, and he chewed his lip, really wishing he had those fucking sunglasses now. He didn’t want to look anybody in the eye as they shared their sorry tales, nor as he was forced to impart his. It felt way too personal, even though all they did was blurt out personal shit to each other in here. This was on another level though, and he didn’t feel so damn comfortable anymore. Every time someone wrapped up and it got closer to his turn, he sank a little lower in his seat, cursing himself for not switching to the other side of the room where they had more time to prepare. ‘ _Just cuz you wanna be able to see Red’s face_ ,’ his brain willfully supplied. His restless limb picked up the pace.

And then all eyes were on him.

His hands shook as he gathered all his courage to tell the truth.

“My mom died when I was 12. Heart stopped. Overdose. I knew she was a junkie, but I also didn’t really, you know? She hid most of it from me and my sister. Older brothers probably saw more. Our dad was a piece of shit. Got worse after that, so I guess it feels like some kinda turning point or whatever. And… and I guess the worst part for me was… well, it was all bad, but… I’m the one who found her. I’d never seen… it was pretty gruesome. She’d been there for hours. Passed out on the floor. I was at school. It was before I stopped caring about that for a long time. Anyway… grief… I don’t know. Did I go through it properly? I highly fucking doubt it, but… it is what it is I guess. I’ve never known anything else. It happened when it happened, and I had to keep on living in a really bad situation, but it was normal to me. Only realized it wasn’t normal in the last few years, you know? When I first tried to stay sober… it was mostly to spite my dead dad. Cuz I could finally be something else. Something that had nothing to do with him.”

When he looked up, he saw rapt faces staring back, and it was unnerving. He took a deep breath, signing to Martin, “That’s all I got.”

“Thank you, Mickey. I’m sorry to hear about that awful event in your childhood. I’m glad that you’re finally able to start dealing with it, and I encourage you to seek a permanent therapist to work with you outside of these meetings. If not now, when your time here is completed. You’ll be surprised how much it could help you. Please think about it. I’d be happy to give you a referral.”

Mickey nodded, gulping, and sinking back into his chair, eternally grateful when they moved on. He didn’t ever talk about his mom, really. Not even with his sister, Mandy. It was just one of those things that never got brought up. They weren’t exactly the types to sit around having heavy, serious conversations. They were much more ‘in the moment’ kind of people. Not a lot of self-reflection. Did that make them shitty children? They never talked about her, probably barely thought about her… shit, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d visited her grave. It was right there just a short way across town… marked with the cheapest, smallest engraved slab they could get. He doubted anyone ever went there for her.

Fuck. That was so goddamn depressing. If he didn’t watch out, the same sad fate would be waiting for him when the time came.

The entire mood of the room was decidedly way down. Some of the old-timers had some doozies. Car crashes with whole families lost and shit. Many dead parents, and friends who’d OD’d. An OG with a tragic drive-by tale involving innocents. If they were trying to boost their collective mental health, this was doing a piss poor job.

And of course when they got to Red, Mickey was practically spellbound. Since when did he start hanging on his every word? His face was very emotional today, and his lips moved along with his hands a lot more than they usually did. He wondered if they were emitting any sounds.

“My Mom died about 6 years ago now.” He looked right at Mickey for a moment. “I wasn’t there. I took off somewhere, and while I was gone, I guess she died alone. Brain aneurysm. She was an addict too. Bipolar on top of that, and unmedicated pretty much my entire life. One Thanksgiving when I was a teenager, she randomly showed up. At that point we saw her like once every year or two, when she’d come around to blow everything up, then leave again just as abruptly as she’d arrived. Anyway, this time, she decided to make a big scene and slit her wrists with a kitchen knife in front of all of us. It was pretty traumatizing for the younger kids. All my siblings pretty much hated her, or barely knew her, but for whatever reason, I was her favorite. She thought we were the most alike. Made me feel special and shit. And I feel like I’m the only one who really loved her in spite of the horrible things she did to us. And I’m the only one who misses her. But I think I did grieve. I’m at peace with it. She’s gone, and I wish our relationship had been different. I wish she’d been better, but it can never change. There’s no way to make it something else now. We moved on. But it’ll always suck.”

When Ian met his eyes again, Mickey couldn’t help it if he tried. A melancholy little smile of encouragement quirked his lips, along with a subtle tip of his head like a tiny nod of understanding. The redhead’s eyes widened slightly, and he quickly looked away to Martin, who started extolling Ian’s strength, before segueing into some shrink-y questioning that connected Ian’s mom to his current state of mental un-wellness, and his patterns or whatever.

It was the first time he really saw Red look sad and tearful. And maybe now he finally got what he was actually doing there. His story had been pretty fucked up too. Maybe Mickey needed to stop judging every book by its cover. After all, some people were better than him at putting up facades.

He did his usual standing around waiting for his attendance sign-offs after the session mercifully ended, and made his escape as soon as he got them. He had a cigarette between his fingers before he even exited the building, lighting it as soon as he stepped foot outside. But as he walked toward the sidewalk, a hand wrapped around his shoulder, and he swung back around, squaring up.

And who should be standing there, but Red himself, holding his hands up in a placating manner. Mickey exhaled harshly, signing, “Can I help you?”

“Sorry for grabbing you, but you were walking fast.”

“That’s because I wanna get the fuck outta here.”

Ian snickered. “Yeah, I can tell. You always do. Look, I thought maybe you’d wanna try sticking around tonight? The food is usually shit, but there’s a few things that are pretty good for cafeteria fare. They got fried shrimp and tater tots today, which is maybe the most edible choice of them all.”

Mickey was mildly perplexed. Not at this guy being the type to try and get others to participate in things, but at him thinking that Mickey was a good candidate for that sorta treatment. And then it him.

“What, you think cuz we both got dead mom sob stories, we’re gonna be besties forever now?”

Ian’s resolve seemed to waver slightly, but he pressed on. “No, that’s not what I thought, actually. I just figured since you finally started getting real in there, maybe you were taking this whole thing seriously now. And if you are, then you should stay. We don’t have to be friends, but if you’d stop being such a dick, we could talk a little and you won’t have to go home feeling like total shit, maybe.” He shrugged. “Besides, who turns down free food in our neighborhood? Even if you do have better stuff at home right now.”

Mickey mulled it over. That was a good point, he did like free shit. But he could afford to eat well now. He didn’t need handouts, and he didn’t have to knock over stores, and he even had shit in his cabinets that was just for back-up, in case he ran out of the good stuff, or found himself in the hole for a while. Still, the cost was included in whatever the state was shelling out for him to attend this crap, so maybe Ian had a point. And maybe since Mickey was always staring at him anyway, he should actually see if he was in any way okay to hang out with. It’s not like he had to know him beyond their time left in the program.

His raised eyebrows settled back to their resting position, and he took another drag of his smoke. “Fine, whatever, but if you suck, I’m just gonna go sit in a corner by myself, and no following me like some kicked puppy.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’ll try to resist your considerable charms.” Then he made a jerk-off motion, and turned toward the building.

Mickey followed, smiling at his back.

After he’d finished his smoke, he made his way to the open area he’d seen the cafeteria in, finding himself the last to be served. Spotting Ian on his own at a two person table, he made his way over and tossed his tray down with uncaring force.

Red looked up at him with a look of exasperation Mickey found to be… _adorable_.

Ian set his plastic fork down, and signed, “You gonna feign this badass attitude the whole time? Doesn’t it get exhausting?”

Mickey shrugged. “Got me by most of my life, hasn’t it?”

“And how’s that worked out for you?” Ian challenged, gesturing around broadly.

Mickey’s mouth fell open a little, and he didn’t know whether to be amused or offended. “Now who’s being a dick?” he finally settled on.

Ian's smile spread slowly across his face, and he picked his fork back up.

They focused on their food for a while, Mickey mentally high-fiving himself for grabbing a shit ton of cocktail sauce and ketchup. He drowned his fried brown foods in the two red pools of gunk, and shoveled them into his mouth contentedly enough, occasionally pausing to wash the tomato taste down with a cup of apple juice, since they apparently didn’t deign to serve sodas here.

“So,” Ian signed once he’d cleared his tray of everything except a banana, “you gonna tell me the real story about how you ended up here?”

Mickey frowned. “I told that story the day I came in.”

“Not really. You said the bare minimum. There was no context. It wasn’t the full story.”

“Alright, Mr. Semantics. You want the gory details?”

Ian nodded. “I don’t mind some gore.”

Mickey shook his head with a snort. “It’s actually one of the least gory stories I have about getting arrested, even though there was punching and blood involved. Anyway… I was pissed about something, and I went to this bar—”

“What were you pissed about?”

Mickey rolled his eyes heavenward and sat back. “Is this my story to tell, or yours?”

“Come on. You said ‘gory details.’ You can’t gloss over the reason you went to that bar in the first place. It sets the whole mood.”

“God, you really are a writer, aren’t you?”

Ian just shrugged.

“Fine, asshole, I’ll tell you… I was… I’d been on this… dating app.”

Ian’s eyes practically sparkled, and he looked like he was holding in a laugh.

“What?” asked Mickey.

“Nothing.”

“You wanna fucking make fun of me, don’t you?”

Ian shook his head.

“You do!” signed Mickey indignantly.

Ian definitely snickered. “I’m sorry! It’s just… I can’t picture you using a dating app, okay? It’s kind of funny.”

“Fuck you!”

Ian laughed more. “Don’t be offended. It’s kind of cute. Very unexpected.”

Mickey still looked pissed. “I'm not gonna tell you the fucking story if you’re gonna make fun of me.”

“Oh my god, I said I’m sorry, okay? You were on a dating app, and… you talked to someone who didn’t like you?”

“No. I talked to someone who did seem to like me, fuck you very much. And then… they just… I told them I was deaf, okay? And we were all set to meet up and shit, and then it was just… I was ghosted.”

Ian’s face fell in sympathy, and Mickey wanted to punch him. “I’m sorry, Mickey. That’s shitty. But if it makes you feel any better, it’s totally happened to me too. More than once.”

Mickey was apprehensive about that. “Really?”

Ian nodded vigorously. “I swear. Plenty of ableist assholes in the world who don’t wanna date someone they think of as defective or whatever. But the way I see it, it's like a pre-screener for fuckboys. Or, you know, girls in your case. I guess ‘fuckgirls’ is not a term, though, for obvious reasons. What would they be called? Dumb bitches? I don’t know.”

Mickey chortled, and took the plunge. “Actually, you were right the first time. He was a fuckboy.”

Ian’s jaw went a little slack, and Mickey felt oddly victorious. Most people didn’t peg him for being gay, and he usually didn’t go around casually volunteering the information, but now that he was aware that they had that additional thing in common, he didn’t see the harm in revealing it.

“Continue, then,” said Ian.

“Okay, so I got screwed over by this guy I’d been talking to, and ended up at a bar I'd never been to before, but it’s in the neighborhood. Some divey bullshit that’s clean enough to attract the hipsters, but no actual career drunks would wanna hang out in. I knocked back a few pretty quick, just minding my own business. Then some shit-kicking motherfucker starts getting mouthy near me. I could tell by the general shift in energy and body language around me, but I kept asking for refills. Eventually, I get that he’s talking to me. I get to the point where I can’t ignore him anymore, so I make it known that I’m not the fucking one to have a conversation with. So of course, he starts talking shit about me. It was pretty goddamn obvious. I started reading his lips, and caught the gist, even though he was slurring all over the place. Anyway, he was insulting me, I was pissed about that other shit, and I hadn’t been drunk in over a year, so you do the math. Smashed a bottle over his head, and he still came back swinging. Laid him out pretty good. Cops came, knew me by name on account of my notorious old man and our family crime syndicate. Next thing I know, I’m in the drunk tank with a busted lip and bruised knuckles. Thought I’d get at least 6 months. Ended up being 30 days if I participated in this outpatient bullshit for my alcoholism, etcetera. Ta-da!”

Ian raised his hands and twisted his wrists, which was the sign for clapping. “See, was that so hard?”

“You’re nosy as fuck, Red.”

“Red?”

Mickey pointed at his hair. “I really gotta explain that one?”

“My name is Ian.” After spelling it out, he provided the sign for his name that family and friends used.

“Yeah, I caught that. I’m just a nickname kinda guy.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I think you could do better than Red.”

“Maybe so, but I’d have to get to know you first. Not sure I wanna. Mind’s not made up.”

Ian stuck his tongue out and made a face. “You’ll learn to like me, I promise.”

Somehow, Mickey had no doubt about that. If anything, he might be a little worried. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so at ease with a new person. He downed the rest of his juice, and looked away before anything on his face could give him up.

  


  



	4. Week Six (Four)

Ian was surprised as hell when Mickey started staying for dinner after group every night, sitting with him at the same small two-person table they’d eaten at the first time. He’d tried to encourage him to meet some of their fellow issue-addled comrades, but Mickey refused to sit at one of the larger tables with anyone else. Ian couldn’t blame him, for the most part, but there were a couple of older people there that were actually enjoyable to talk to. One step at a time, he supposed.

“What’d you do yesterday?” asked Mickey during their post-Wednesday night session.

They mostly stuck to light-hearted topics after all the emotional revelation that happened in group, so their interactions so far had been relatively shallow. Still, Ian was glad that Mickey was becoming relaxed with him. He knew from the things he did and didn’t say in group that Mickey didn’t really have a lot of people in his life. In fact, he was pretty sure that his sister was the only person he ever interacted with on a non-casual basis. And Ian didn’t have a savior complex or anything, but he did sometimes have a soft heart for lost causes, and Mickey seemed to be as lost as they came.

Ian chewed his mouthful of mediocre pizza and set it down. “Went to the gym. Just rejoined a couple weeks ago. Normally, I like to just go jogging if I’m not, you know, glued to my bed and completely incapable of physical activity. But I need to get fit again. Work all the muscle groups.” Mickey’s gaze scanned him in a slightly interested way, and Ian bit back a smirk. “Then I had Franny for most of the day. Lotsa developmental activities and kiddie shows. And cheese sticks and apples. Very exciting stuff in general.”

Mickey smiled, and it actually felt genuine. That had happened a few times now too. It was somewhat disconcerting, seeing as he’d never seen that smile directed at anyone else. Although, he supposed the outpatient program wasn’t exactly chock-full of giggle fits.

“I’ve been working out again too. No babysitting though.” He shrugged.

Ian took a swallow of his juice and glanced away. He had definitely noticed the signs of recent exertion Mickey displayed the last couple of times he came to group. Gym apparel aside, he’d arrived donning a light sheen of sweat, slick hair, and a red blush in his cheeks. It suited him.

“Mostly, I just did a bunch of work,” Mickey continued. “And my parole officer dropped by for one of them random inspections and piss tests. Those are always fun.”

Ian nodded. “If they’re anything like surprise CPS visits, I sort of know the feeling.”

“Eh, it’s kinda like that, but more threatening. PO I got this time ain’t too bad though. Doesn’t use me for his own fucked up scams, at least. Actually wants me on the straight and narrow. Go figure.”

Confusion painted Ian’s face, but he didn’t ask him to elaborate. They continued eating then, leaving any further conversation for when their trays were empty.

“Well, it’s been real, gingerbread,” Mickey signed, standing up abruptly. “Guess I’ll see you on Friday.”

“Wait,” replied Ian. “Why don’t you give me your number?” He pulled out his phone, offering it over.

Mickey’s eyebrows knitted together in a way that Ian was coming to appreciate more and more. Most deaf people he knew tended to be more exaggerated in their facial expressions than the hearing people he knew, but Mickey’s eyebrows had a full life of their own, and it was kind of fascinating.

“The fuck you want my number for?”

Ian chuckled, placing the phone down at the edge of the table. “To sign you up for telemarketing calls. What the hell do you think I want it for? We can actually interact outside of this building, you know.”

Mickey still looked skeptical, and Ian rolled his eyes, nodding toward the phone meaningfully.

“What the fuck ever.” Mickey picked up the phone and started toggling around the smart screen. When he was done, he sat it back down and said, “Maybe you should put a passcode on that thing or something. Someone might go through your shit.”

“Not really worried about that. Would rather have easy access. I’ll send you a welcome text later.”

Mickey flipped him off and walked away without clearing his tray. Ian sighed and cleaned up the table for the both of them.

By the time he got home, he was pleased to have the main area to himself, as Franny and Debs had both turned in for the night, meaning the toddler was asleep and the mother was most likely studying at her desk. She knew Ian liked to work in the living room when he could, rather than being relegated only to his bedroom all the time. But before he went to retrieve his laptop, he decided to grab a beer and see if he could have a little fun poking at the bear that was Mickey Milkovich.

Martin the counselor was always encouraging Ian to give up alcohol and pot altogether, but he thought that was one of the few shit ideas the old-timer had to offer. It’s not like he went crazy and got wasted all the time anymore, and he didn’t really feel much different high than normal. It just gave him the illusion of escape. He realized he was supposed to be able to face reality without any unhealthy crutches, but fuck it. He wasn’t exactly ready for all that. Still, since he was currently trying out med regiments, he had promised himself that he would go weed-free for a few months until he saw how things shook out. The nurse that screened him when he started the program was so fucking judgmental about the presence of THC in his bloodstream, you would think he’d been mainlining heroin. She also didn’t appreciate his comment about sometimes drinking an entire bottle of wine alone by himself. Recovery folks were militant about any and all mind-altering substances that weren’t specifically prescribed by a doctor.

Anyway, a beer or two every once in a while wasn’t gonna wash all the goddamn Lexapro out of his system. He wasn’t drinking to get drunk and do stupid shit. He just wanted to unwind a little from time to time.

He sat back on the couch and took a long pull from the bottle, picking up his phone from where he’d tossed it when he walked in. When he swiped it open, he was greeted with an unattractive, awkward selfie of himself as the home screen, rather than the usual abstract art piece that he’d assigned it.

He gasped, then laughed, opening up his contacts. Luckily, Mickey had inputted his info without using some random joke name that made it hard to find, so he opened a new text thread with the number he found.

> Very funny, asshole.

Luckily, Mickey must’ve had his phone in hand, because Ian didn’t have to wait for a reply.

> Who is this?
> 
> 🖕🏻 You know exactly who this is.  🙄
> 
> Hmm… idk… is it some redheaded fucker who won’t stop pestering me to play with him on the swing set?
> 
> You think you’re funny, but I never stopped loving a good swing.
> 
> Of course you haven’t. Nice pic, though. Did you use it on your Grindr profile?
> 
> You’re right, I should’ve never asked for your phone number.
> 
> Come on, man, I had to fuck with you a little bit. It’s in my nature. Next time, just delete the bad ones after you find the good take.
> 
> Next time, don’t fucking scroll through my photo gallery without permission. Could be some sensitive material in there.
> 
> Oh yeah? Damn. Guess I stopped scrolling too soon then.

Ian’s heart rate picked up a bit. It was just a little harmless flirting though. Every gay guy wanted to see every dick pic in the world, no matter who the subject was. You always just wanted to _know_. That didn’t mean he knew how to respond to that, though. He wasn’t about to flirt back. That wasn’t why he’d exchanged numbers. The last thing he needed right now was a relationship, serious or not. He wasn’t even looking to just get laid, especially not with some guy from his therapy sessions. That would just be… the kind of inappropriate behavior he used to constantly engage in, and he didn’t wanna be that person anymore. So he changed the subject…

> Anyway, now you have my number. Reach out if you want or need to. Any time.
> 
> God, do you have to try to turn everything into a damn Hallmark moment?
> 
> Do you have to protest too much every time someone’s nice to you?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> I can tell I’m gonna be sending you lots of eye-roll emojis. I’ve never met anyone so annoying.
> 
> You know you don’t have to actually speak to me right?
> 
> I couldn’t even if I wanted to.
> 
> Was that a deaf joke?
> 
> Yep.
> 
> Consider yourself sent the eye-roll emoji, then.
> 
> Lol. Why not just actually send one?
> 
> I don’t do emojis.
> 
> 🙄🙄🙄
> 
> Now fuck off, Gallagher.
> 
> Goodnight, Mickey.

He continued fucking around on his phone while he finished his beer, then finally got up to get his laptop and notebook from his room and brought them to the sofa. He was feeling confident and productive, so he decided to try his hand at free writing his first draft of chapter 1 of the novel he’d finally pieced together a full story for. His notebook was now filled with outlines, timelines, broken down plot points, character charts, family and friend trees, glossaries of certain vernaculars, and bits and pieces of passages that he’d string into the text where it fitted.

He wasn’t too worried about getting the opening paragraph perfect just yet. He knew that was something that would most likely get fleshed out in the revision process. For now, he just needed a point to start from and a direction to go in. He needed to find the right tone and figure out how to stick with it through and through. If all went well, maybe by this time next year, he’d have a finished product that was worth something.

Thursday, he was on Franny duty from noon on, so he had to make an early decision on whether or not to work out. He lazed around in bed all morning, every fiber of his being telling him to just stay there until he was forced into responsibility, but then he thought about how he was supposed to be creating a new routine. Of course, that didn’t mean he had to get everything done first thing. He could potentially squeeze a workout in after Debs got back home. He could even take his niece to the park and run her around a bit for some light cardio. The lure of his phone was too interesting, and the bed was too comfortable, and just _fuck it_! He was allowed to take time for himself.

At pretty much 12:00 pm on the dot, Debbie summoned him by text, and he finally got up, put his hearing aids in, and trudged out of his room, bladder aching.

His sister gave him an unimpressed once over, then signed, “You look like shit. You up for taking care of my daughter?”

“Of course,” he replied. “You know you don’t have to worry about me not taking care of her.”

“Gotta take care of yourself too, though. At least put some damn pants on.”

“I was about to, smartass. Now, get the hell outta here. I’m gonna make breakfast after I pee.”

“She won’t need anything for a couple hours, but I’m glad you have an appetite already.”

“Yeah, yeah. Scram, brat.”

She flipped him off as she retreated, and he got some proper clothes on, so he could start his day of nannying.

Once he’d used the bathroom, cooked himself some scrambled eggs with salsa, done 3 pages of Franny’s latest pre-school workbook with her, and colored in her giant fairytale coloring book, Ian got her ready for the park. Being outside, particularly with a bunch of little kids around, almost always boosted Ian’s mood. He liked watching the way children just let go completely, running around, screaming, getting into shit. Even when they hurt themselves, it was kind of adorable.

Franny’s orange hair was growing out now, and it had these cute little ringlets at the ends, so she looked extra sweet when she was chasing him during their game of tag. He just missed that feeling of being carefree, and not really understanding what life was all about. Things were so much simpler before your brain started really firing on all cylinders.

When he was pushing her on the swings, he thought of Mickey, and made sure to get a few minutes to swing himself before they left, snapping a selfie to send later.

Back home, he made her lunch, delighted at having tired her out enough to conk out for nap time. Once she was settled in her bed, he got back to work on his laptop, managing to accomplish a few pages before his niece woke up, the special baby monitor alerting him with vibration and a flashing light. It was TV time anyway, though, so he took his hearing aids out while she watched cartoons, and kept at it until Debbie returned.

He felt drained, and didn’t particularly feel like going to the gym anymore, but somehow, he psyched himself up, and compelled himself to pick up his already packed gym bag, and just get out the door. Once he started walking, the energy picked up enough to carry him through an hour’s workout.

On his way past the bulletin board as he exited the changing room, he caught sight of a flyer advertising the next Chicago marathon and did a double take. He’d always wanted to run it, but it would mean really dedicating himself to training, because when he finally decided to sign up, he was going to give it his all. He didn’t want to take 5 hours and vomit his guts up. He used to run a 6-minute mile when he was younger and super into ROTC in high school. He was definitely more of a jogger now, though, not really pushing himself too hard. He would have to get back to that 6-minute time or best it, or else he didn’t want to do it.

He was somewhat of a perfectionist, so sue him.

He thought about it the whole way home, and decided to skip couch time that night and just hang out in bed. He heated up some leftover pasta and turned on Hulu on the computer, zoning out for a while. Shortly after he finished eating, he started feeling bored as hell, anxiously shaking his leg as he scrolled around aimlessly on his phone. Maybe he should crank one out?

Yeah, he hadn’t been doing that much lately. He was probably pent up. He pulled up an incognito tab on Chrome and went to Xhamster. He used to have a paid subscription to a good paid gay site, but no longer. Still, he found something decent after a few attempts, and got to stroking. It took a little over 10 minutes to come, but it was a decent enough orgasm he supposed. Nothing fancy. He wiped himself clean and decided it was probably time to shower, now that dried cum had been added to the sweat funk from the gym.

He felt shiny and new once he stepped out, wide awake and fast approaching midnight. He lied back against his sheets in just a towel and picked up his phone. He texted back his brothers in their ongoing group chat, then noticed the thread with Mickey underneath. Of course the guy hadn’t attempted to reach out at all. Ian had a feeling it was gonna take a while for him to be the one to text first. If ever.

He snorted, thinking of that picture he took earlier on the swing, and pulled it up from his gallery. He got it ready to share, and wondered if he should caption it, or just send it, or say something first. Maybe he’d dip his toes in with a leading question.

> How was your day?
> 
> Pretty uneventful, since I never left my house. You?

Perfect segue. Ian sent the pic, adding:

> You know, adventures in the park, the usual.
> 
> Smh. You’re so lame, Gallagher.
> 
> Whatever. I bet you smiled.
> 
> I’m pointing a middle finger right at you from afar.
> 
> You know, there's a perfect emoji for that.
> 
> Still not doing it.
> 
> You’re no fun.
> 
> Why’re you still talking to me, then?
> 
> Cuz having a friend might help you learn how to have some.
> 
> And who exactly appointed you, despondent boy, as teacher of fun and friendship?
> 
> Lol. You’re such an asshole. Doesn’t this chance to have witty repartee enrich your sad, boring day at home?
> 
> If you say so. Being alone never bothered me before.
> 
> No? It just led you to bad online dating, falling off the wagon, and starting fights that landed you in jail and therapy.  ⭐️ ⬅️ That’s your gold star.
> 
> Damn, Red. That was kinda mean. Way to spread the cheer.

Ian snorted, and pulled up a selfie he took of him and Franny in front of a tree earlier, both of them smiling wide. He figured that was cheerful enough. Even the hardest hearted of assholes usually broke rank for cute kids. He sent it.

> Jfc, I guess your whole clown car of a family is ginger, huh?
> 
> Wrong again, curmudgeon boy. Just us and my younger sister. Everyone else is some shade of brown or blond. My youngest brother is full-on black, as in his skin and everything. No one ever quite figured that one out.
> 
> Definitely sounds like soap opera material.
> 
> I’m sure you enjoy your daytime stories, so you would know.  😛
> 
> Har har.
> 
> Aren’t you gonna tell me my niece is cute? I know you’re completely socially inept, but it’s the most basic of requirements when someone shows you a photo of a family member under 12.
> 
> Yeah, yeah, whatever. She’s cute.
> 
> You’re really good at conversation. Has anybody ever told you that?
> 
> Has anybody ever told you to fuck off?
> 
> Yeah. I think you’ve done it more than enough, considering we’ve only known each other a few weeks.
> 
> Surely a few others have gotten that privilege before me.
> 
> Most people find me charming, believe it or not. But yeah, my brothers and I get into it sometimes. It’s usually them saying it.
> 
> I’m sure it was well deserved.
> 
> One day you’ll realize that what you're interpreting as me being annoying is actually me being awesome and amazing.
> 
> I’m rolling my eyes so hard, they’re in danger of getting stuck staring into the back of my skull.
> 
> You really shouldn’t self-own like that, admitting that you don’t have a brain.  💀
> 
> Tell me about the part where you’re not annoying again?
> 
> I’m awesome. And amazing. It’s not hard to understand. If you have a brain.  🤷🏻♂️
> 
> Alright, I think I’m done with your little text thread for tonight, Gallagher.
> 
> Fine, Scarecrow, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow at group. Can’t wait for your scintillating signing over suspicious supper.
> 
> Middle fingers in your general direction, alliteration boy. Toes too. Gives it more power.

Ian giggled, and hesitated for a moment before finally deciding to send another sarcastic emoji, because he did like having the last ‘word.’

> 💋

  


  



	5. Week Five (Seven)

Mickey wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up with a friend, but here he was. Ian Gallagher persisted like no other motherfucker he’d ever known. It was the kind of persistence that somehow brooked no refusal. Mickey just sort of got caught in the undertow beneath wave after wave of Ian’s overtures crashing down on his head until he got too tired to keep swimming against the current. All he could do was relax into the flow or perish. So… this was him relaxing into it.

They would see each other those 3 days a week, offsetting the heaviness of the therapy sessions with mostly lighthearted bullshit, as they shared a cigarette or shoveled down crappy food together at their little table by the wall. Then on the non-group days, Ian would randomly bombard him with texts. But that’s where their interactions always began and ended… in the place they were thrown together with a bunch of other degenerates, and through the comfortable social distance of their smart phones.

And now, suddenly, Ian was trying to change all that.

It was after dinner on Wednesday, and they were lingering together outside the building, having a smoke. Usually they only did that between the session and the food, but Ian was so fucking clingy. Sometimes Mickey couldn’t shake him.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Ian signed with his cigarette hanging between his lips.

“The usual,” Mickey replied, also balancing the smoke with his mouth.

Ian rolled his eyes, like he lived to do when Mickey was around. “So… sitting around your apartment by yourself being a miserable asshole?”

Mickey flipped him off. “It’s the simple life I always wanted.”

“Why don’t you come do something with me, then?”

Mickey laughed and shook his head. “Because I don’t want to.”

“Yes you do. You’re just being stubborn, because you don’t know any other way.”

“Always telling me all about myself, when you barely fucking know me, coppertop.”

“Well, I’m never gonna get to know you if you keep not letting me.”

“I don’t wanna go anywhere.”

“Okay, then I’ll come to you. We can hang out at your place. Together.”

Mickey huffed and puffed. “Ain’t the depression and anxiety bullshit supposed to make you have that social fear or whatever? Like not wanting to leave your house?”

“Agoraphobia? Not necessarily. I do have social anxiety, but I’ve always been a people person anyway, so I kinda manage it. Unless I’m real low. Then I do usually just stay home, in bed, or glued to the couch like it’s the bed. But I don’t think tomorrow will be one of those days.”

“Pretty sure it’s not cool to just invite yourself over to someone else’s house. I may be socially inept, as you like to say, but even I know that.”

“You didn’t give me any other options did you? You don’t wanna go out, so I probably can’t make you come to mine on the first hang. It’s just logic.” He took one last pull, nearly down to the filter, and smothered the butt out against the wall, then threw it in the trashcan, like a fucking boy scout.

Mickey sighed deeply, smoking the last of his cigarette as well, and tossing it to the ground to stomp out with his boot, like a normal dude.

“You’re so goddamn pushy all the time. Ain’t gonna let me say no, are you?”

Ian shrugged with an annoying little grin on his face. “Nope.”

“Fine, whatever. You can come over to my place this one time. I’m sure I can figure out a way to make it so you never wanna come back.”

Ian laughed and clamped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it as Mickey looked down at the offending touch with an air of displeasure.

“Not unless you can get that brain from the Wizard first, Scarecrow,” teased Ian.

Mickey narrowed his eyes and punched him in the shoulder. “You know that makes you Dorothy, right? The little 14-year-old girl in the blue dress and sparkly red heels?”

“You know that makes you a Friend of Dorothy, right? Have you ever taken Homo Studies 101? Chapter 2: Judy Garland.”

Mickey didn’t want to laugh, but he did. “Chapter 2? What’s chapter 1 then?”

Ian looked at him like he was a moron. “Everything You Need to Know About Gay Sex, obviously.”

“Makes sense. I never got a handbook. It was a rough back-alley type of practical education for me.”

Ian snickered. “I bet.”

“Anyway, quit fucking calling me Scarecrow.”

Ian nodded. “Easy enough. I can call you Tin Man instead. Pretty sure you’re in need of a heart too.”

Mickey pushed him as they began walking toward the sidewalk. Ian just laughed, shoulder-checking him back.

Once ensconced in the cozy mundanity of his home, he debated just letting Ian’s text request for his address go unanswered. At this point, Mickey could begrudgingly admit that he enjoyed the dude’s company, but that didn’t make him anymore used to entertaining visitors. His place was kind of a shithole. Ian insisting on being let into his weird little world here was imposing on Mickey to make some small effort not to let on that he lived as a complete trash person. He knew Ian didn’t grow up fancy, and he knew he had issues that might sidetrack his cleanliness sometimes, but it was still embarrassing to be a grown man with hygiene problems. Medium to maximum effort would have to be expended to even allow Ian through that door.

On the other hand, he’d been hoping for a catalyst to get him to take control back over the appearance of the place. It wasn’t all that big, so if he cut some corners here and there and kind of shoved a lot of shit into closets that wouldn’t be opened, maybe hide some dirty dishes in the oven, he might be able to get it decent enough. Maybe he’d even open some windows and walk around with the Glade aerosol spraying freely.

Ian was right. They were friends. If he didn’t want that to be a temporary thing, Mickey was going to have to step out of his comfort zone and invite Ian into his life in a more concrete way.

_Fuck it._

He texted Ian his address, adding that he shouldn’t even think about arriving before at least 5 PM. To his surprise, he didn’t even get a protest. At least the dumbass knew how to pick his battles and when to leave well enough alone.

Still, it didn’t stop Mickey from feeling a little ridiculous at all the elbow grease he was putting in just so some guy would feel comfortable in his place. And there was also this fucking nervousness coursing through him that amplified with every hour that ticked closer to Ian’s arrival. That wasn’t something he was used to, and he’d been having it a lot lately. With that stupid fucking program. Some days he felt like he was becoming a different person. He wasn’t sure yet if he liked it or not.

His doorbell light system started flashing about 20 after 5. Probably all Gallagher could bring himself to wait past the hour Mickey’d suggested. As if the extra 20 minutes were a common courtesy. Such a goody two shoes.

When he opened the door, Ian held up two plastic bags of groceries and shook them like they were a grand offering. Mickey rolled his eyes and waved him in.

Ian sat the bags on the small two person dining table Mickey had near the entryway and turned to him with his patented broad smile.

“What the fuck is all this?” Mickey signed.

“Well, I couldn’t bring you a brain or a heart, so I brought snacks,” Ian signed back.

“Jesus Christ, firecrotch, enough with the goddamn _Wizard of Oz_ shit. You’re running that gag straight into the ground.”

Ian shrugged. “Whatever. It’s our thing now. You just gotta accept it.”

“I really don’t,” Mickey replied, “but if you’re gonna keep bringing it up, you at least need to get some new material. Flying monkeys, Emerald City, something.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He looked around at the living room and kitchen area. “Your place isn’t bad. A lot cleaner than I expected.”

“Fuck you, Gallagher.”

Ian laughed. “That was a compliment.”

“It was backhanded as hell. And whatever, maybe I did some cleaning today.”

Ian’s smile got even bigger and more delighted. “Aw, for little old me?”

“God, you really are one of those queers who likes the golden age picture broads, aren’t you?”

“Not really, I just like fucking with you. But I am surprised that you seem to have a lot of knowledge on the subject, even while putting me down for it.”

“Fine, so I like some Turner Classic Movies every once in a while. Suck a dick.”

“You’re so gay,” said Ian with a guffaw. “Can’t believe I didn’t see it before. Gonna start calling you Glenda now. She had the poofiest, prettiest dress, and floated away on bubbles.”

Mickey gave him the double middle finger salute. “You gonna come sit the fuck down or you got some more bad jokes to lay on me first?”

Ian did a flowery ‘after you’ type gesture toward the couch, and Mickey rolled his eyes and led the way. He picked up the remote as they sat down, and the screen alit with a nature scene from Nat Geo, the closed captioning narration scrolling at the bottom.

“Wow. And you’ve been watching a documentary channel. I really am seeing whole other sides of you here.”

“What can I say, I like watching the predators chase down the prey.”

“Oh, okay. Good to know that you watch nature shows in the toughest, manliest way possible. Just in it for the kill thrills.”

“I’m starting to think that maybe your first novel won’t completely suck. You do sometimes have a way with words.”

Ian put a hand to his chest for a moment. “Was that a compliment from you to me? The power of you being here in your own element… I’m really glad I invited myself over.”

“Yeah, well, I’m still regretting it enough for the both of us. Anyway… I’d normally offer you a beer or some shit, but you know… can’t have alcohol on the premises.”

“Yeah. I almost fucked up and brought some weed, but then I remembered…”

“Honestly, if I didn’t have a parole officer riding my ass, I’d ask you to bring the weed.”

“But, wouldn’t it be better for you to stay away from everything? Like, just in case.”

Mickey shrugged. “Ain’t a fucking gateway deal or anything. Usually, weed actually helps me with cravings for other shit that gets me into real trouble. Like, if I wanna have a drink, I smoke a blunt instead. If I wanna get tweaked out, or pop pills, or snort coke, whatever, I just smoke a blunt. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah. I mean, it makes sense to me, but there’s so many conflicting opinions on weed and mental illness and addiction. I know you don’t do the 12-step thing, so you don’t have a sponsor, and I know Martin has some antiquated views on it, even though he’s a decent therapist for the most part. I just kinda came to the conclusion that it works for some people, and doesn’t for others. That it can be good or bad depending on the circumstances and the bigger picture. Maybe even just brain chemistry.”

“Fuck, we getting into an off-day therapy session?” asked Mickey, without waiting for an answer. “So no booze, but I got Coke of the soda variety, and I got sweet tea, and I got water.”

An hour later found them content just watching a mediocre action flick, snacking on munchies as if they were high, and sipping on sodas as if they were spiked.

Mickey’s nerves had finally dissipated enough to feel like he wasn’t acting weird. There really was an ease between them now. Maybe it had been there all along, but he was still surprised by it somehow. He thought he would feel some kind of pressure to perform, but there was no need. Yeah, Ian liked to rag on him about dumb shit, but it was really just him giving as good as he got from Mickey. They fucked with each other in the same manner he and his sister did, in a sort of playful, specious kind of way; superficially devastating, but quietly affectionate.

Somewhere during the second half of the movie, Ian got restless and started distracting Mickey by showing him dumb shit on his phone (mostly memes and funny tweets), until they were ignoring the shoot-‘em-up for playful banter. But then, Ian suddenly seemed to turn more serious. Not like dire, but sober. Like he wanted to get deep or something. Which they didn’t usually do, since they were always trying to lighten each other up after exposing themselves in group.

“So…” signed Ian, “we gonna exchange stories about our hearing loss or what?”

Mickey almost laughed, because he was expecting something worse, but he just shrugged. “Not much of a story on my end, but if you feel like confessing or some shit, I guess I can be your sounding board.”

Ian gave him an unimpressed look. “Come on, I know you’re bullshitting me, because there’s no way you’re not curious. You obviously never hang out with other deaf people, and you’re not interested to hear about another person’s journey with it?”

“I mean, I guess… I don’t usually force people to relive their traumatic experiences for my amusement.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t offer the exchange if I didn’t wanna talk about it. But if it’s not something you wanna discuss, then I’m okay with that. Just thought you might want to, that’s all. We don’t have to.”

Mickey shook his head. “It’s fine with me. Like I said, not much story to tell. I was born with a rare defect that caused like lesions on my brain, so I’ve been cortically deaf since I came out the womb. Not sure if it was from bad shit my mom did while she was pregnant, or just bad luck, but either way, I’m one of a very tiny group of people on the planet that can’t hear a single thing at all. Like, no muffled noise, no extremely loud noise, no nothing. I don’t really even understand the concept. I mean, I guess I understand the concept, but like, literally no idea what sound feels like.”

Ian nodded. “That’s gotta be fucking frustrating. I don’t know though… Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but from my perspective, you may be luckier than someone like me. I do have some knowledge of sound and hearing. I mean, my aids pick up very little, but I didn’t start to go deaf until I was 6. It was a long time ago obviously, and the memories of it are hazy now, but I do remember talking to my siblings and them talking back. I remember music, and Kindergarten class. Sometimes the depression stuff spirals when I focus too much on those memories. Like when I think they’re slipping away. You know, I get all the self-pity bullshit, and I hate myself or whatever. Hate my fucking parents.”

That struck a chord with Mickey.

“Why do you hate your parents?”

Ian took a deep breath and exhaled heavily, perhaps thinking twice about opening up this can of worms. It didn’t look as easy to talk about as he thought it would be.

“Well, if they’d been halfway fucking decent people, I probably wouldn’t have gone deaf, for one. I may have even died if it weren’t for my older sister. I started getting sick all the time when I was 4. Ear infections. I just cried and cried all the time, basically just screamed my head off. But you know, selfish drug addict, crazy in the head parents, so they just thought I was a nuisance. Didn’t exactly take us on regular pediatric check-ups. Anyway, then I got the chicken pox, and I got a fever so high, Fiona carried me to the free clinic. Turns out I had this shit called chronic otitis media with effusion, so it was hard to fight new infections. Basically, I got so many fucking untreated earaches that the tissue got all scarred up and one of my eardrums ruptured. So I progressively lost hearing in both ears. Severe in one, profound in the other. By the end of first grade, I was deaf, and we didn’t have money for hearing aids until I was a lot older. It was rough as hell.”

“Goddamn, Gallagher. Why’d you wanna tell me all this today? You a masochist or something?”

Ian cracked a small smile. “I just wanted you to know. I mean, I know we’re dudes, and like some weird bro code dictates we just maintain some superficial relationship forever, but I don’t think you can really know if you click with someone, or can depend on them, unless they know at least a little of the real shit.”

Mickey nodded, gulping. He knew that Ian pouring his heart out to him about presumably the shittiest thing that ever happened to him didn’t require reciprocation, but it felt a little weird to leave it hanging like that, when at the least, he totally understood what it was like for your parents to ruin your fucking life because at the end of the day they cared more about themselves and their vices than they did about their own children.

“Okay, fine… Here’s some real shit… You’ve heard me talk about my dad a bit, and what happened to my mom, but I never really paint the full picture in group, you know? I barely scratch the surface. I’ve never heard one sound in my entire life, but my fucking dad treated me like total shit because of it. Didn’t treat my brothers or my sister much better, but I was definitely his favorite whipping boy. He definitely didn’t let my ass learn sign language. I had to communicate like little more than a feral fucking animal for a while there, but I sort of came up with my own system with Mandy and my mom. No one else could understand me. No one else gave even the slightest fuck. I was lost and illiterate until I got one decent fucking special ed teacher in 4th and 5th grade that helped me learn to read and write. Still don’t know how that bitch did it, but she scraped by. Terry wouldn’t let her abide by the full suggested protocol. Wouldn’t send me to the fucking deaf school even though the state would pay for it. But after that, it got easier at least. I had a way to say shit, and I started reading fucking everything. But Mom died in 6th grade, and I didn’t see the point in the grades part anymore. Eventually, I just gave up on school altogether. Dad made me work for him, so I dropped out once I was old enough. Didn’t start learning proper ASL until I was like 19. I was fucking sick and tired of being practically half-functioning. Once I learned that, I got my GED, then I learned how to code. Terry eventually kicked the bucket and I spit on that motherfucker’s grave the one time I went to see it.”

Ian reached out a hand to squeeze his shoulder again, like he had the day before, but this time Mickey didn’t want to shake him off. It wasn’t a gesture of pity or condescension. It was a genuinely understanding type of commiseration.

“That sounds pretty fucking rough,” signed Ian. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if Fi hadn’t gotten me into the state school for the deaf. Didn’t leave public until I was 13, but it made a huge difference really quickly. Didn’t feel like a fucking freak anymore. Learned to find some actual pride in myself. I could’ve easily had a similar story to yours.”

“Why were you so sad about your mom dying, then? I mean, if her neglect directly caused you all this pain and suffering, and then a lifetime disability. Why’d you still care about her?”

Ian sighed. “Monica was fucking complicated, I guess. My dad is an out-and-out piece of shit. Maybe just a tad more benevolent than your dad, but not really worth anything. But she was fucking bipolar, and even though she should’ve gotten medicated and stayed medicated for her kids, she just wouldn’t or couldn’t. I guess I just feel like she didn’t mean to do what she did to me. It was horrible, but it was still an accident? Fiona and Lip never forgave her though. Never let her move back into the house after I was around 8 or 9. Once Fiona finally hit 18, we got Frank out too, so Monica couldn’t even come for a visit. Anyway, my mom was a goddamn walking tragedy, and I just always had sympathy for her in spite of everything. Maybe she didn’t deserve it, but I just couldn’t bring myself to hate her like they did.”

Mickey swallowed thickly again, feeling that heaviness of tears brimming to the brink. _What the fuck?_

He threw up his hands. “Alright! That’s fucking enough of the heavy-ass shit. Fuck!”

Ian huffed a small laugh, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry I ruined the mood with my whole bonding idea.”

“Forget about it. I’ve known that’s what you were after this whole time. Soft motherfucker.”

Ian laughed a little more genuinely. “Does it come off as like extremely sad and desperate? Please be my friend! Listen to my hopes and dreams, and nightmares!”

“Nah, it’s mainly still just annoying and terminally uncool.”

“Ah, okay. I’ll try to work on that then.”

“Probably a wise choice.”

“And look… This is the last thing I’ll say about it, I promise… but, you should really think about opening up about some of the shit you told me tonight when you’re actually in group. You’ve been sharing a lot lately, and I know you’re not used to it, but it can really help. And believe it or not, Martin does like you. He hasn’t just written you off like he does with the hopeless cases. He can see that you’re trying. So just… before your time’s over… push yourself to try and let it all out. Especially if you need a good cry. And I think everybody needs a good cry every once in a while.”

God. Mickey was starting to feel almost like an exposed nerve now. He didn’t even know how to reply to Ian’s plea with sarcasm. He was at a loss for words.

Luckily, Ian continued, “Anyway… you wanna rewind this shit, or you wanna put on something different?”

Mickey nodded, relieved to get back to some mindless companionship. “Let’s find an actual good one this time.”

Ian nudged him with his elbow, and Mickey picked up the remote.

  


  



	6. Week Eight (Six)

Ian had to give himself some of the credit for Mickey’s recent blossoming in group, because frankly, he deserved it. Sure, Martin was partially responsible too, but without their growing closeness, he just didn’t think Mickey would’ve ever started sharing to the extent that he now was. Ian could sense he was still holding back somewhat, but a good deal of that tough exterior had softened, and it seemed like Mickey was no longer too afraid or proud to get real about his experiences or his feelings. There had yet to be any kind of big obvious breakthrough moment, but Ian felt like one might be on the horizon.

Their friendship hadn’t gone unnoticed by their counselor, nor their fellow patients. Martin seemed to be simultaneously cautious and encouraging about the development. Ian wasn’t sure the older man understood all the things that bound him and Mickey together, leaving him short-sighted about their similar outlooks (despite slight variations).

There’d been a couple times that Martin had joined them for dinner, and Mickey had scowled a bit, and talked a lot less, but Ian had coaxed a few laughs and jokes out of him all the same. Ian had just wanted the therapist to get a fuller picture of Mickey the way that he did. To see him softer and more at ease. He wanted Martin to give Mickey a real chance, and conversely, he wanted Mickey to really take advantage of that chance. Ian was still trying to impress that upon him where he could.

After the night Ian had spent hanging out over at Mickey’s place, he’d given him a reprieve from direct outside interaction for a bit. He didn’t want to overwhelm him. He still made sure to maintain text contact though, and he felt like Mickey was starting to be less querulous about it. And now Ian had thrown down a new gauntlet.

He’d invited Mickey to come over to his place, promising him they wouldn’t venture out into the big scary world together just yet, but that he would need to get acquainted with his small scary niece.

> I don’t think you understand, Gallagher… babies and me… we don’t mix.
> 
> If you never try, you’ll never know.
> 
> Thanks for the platitude, but I do know.
> 
> Franny is unique among 3-year-olds. There’s no way you won’t become besties.
> 
> There are plenty of ways, and it’s not gonna happen.
> 
> Look… you need to step outside all your damn comfort zones sometime. If I can take care of her alone by myself nearly everyday, you can sit there and watch me do it for a couple hours. Being around tiny humans is therapeutic. They’re cute and hilarious.
> 
> Sure, unless they’re wailing or shitting themselves.
> 
> I’m not gonna make you change a diaper, Mickey. And in case you’ve forgotten, you can’t fucking hear anything, so what does it matter if she cries a little?
> 
> Tou-fucking-che, asswipe. Why can’t you let me say no ever?
> 
> Because that’s not how this relationship works.
> 
> I didn’t realize I signed up for you to be the boss of me.
> 
> Well, I’m telling you now.  🌈 ⬅️ That’s the “The More You Know” rainbow. And you know what happens somewhere over the rainbow.  😏
> 
> This is my fist I’m gonna shove into your face with force and acceleration. I’m holding it up to the phone and you can just picture what it looks like.
> 
> A physics-based physical threat? Nerdy AND brutish all at once. Very unique. 10/10. Also, next time just use  👊🏻
> 
> If I haven’t started throwing middle finger emojis at you yet, what makes you think I’m gonna start with fists?
> 
> 🍑🤛🏻💪🏻
> 
> Is that supposed to be a fisting joke?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> 3 emojis in a row doesn’t make a fucking joke, Gallagher. I hate you so much.
> 
> 🍆✊🏻↔️🍆💦
> 
> 5 emojis don’t make it any funnier. Who’s even jerking off? Me? You? No context. Makes no sense. 0/10
> 
> No one’s jerking off, dumbass. You are a jerk-off for hating on my jokes. Visual comedy is still comedy.
> 
> Comedy is only comedy when someone somewhere is laughing at it. This is just sad. -5/10
> 
> Ok, pretend I just sent you an entire block of eyeroll and middle finger emojis. Now… what day is good for you to come over and hang out this week? I’d prefer Thursday, personally. But I can make accommodations. If you come after 6, Debbie won’t be too far off from coming home, and she’ll stash Franny away around 7:30 or 8. But I’d like it if you were to show up closer to 5.
> 
> Christ, I know I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t say yes.
> 
> You won’t hear anything, actually, but I catch your drift.  😜
> 
> I’m just gonna agree now so that you’ll stop texting me, because I can’t take anymore of your terrible sense of humor.
> 
> Victory!  🏆👑
> 
> K, fuck off.

And that was how he got Mickey out of his own safe space and into Ian’s for the first time: good old-fashioned pestering and teasing. It was almost too easy, really. He couldn’t believe Mickey hadn’t figured out how to deflect him yet. Deep down, he liked to think that he just didn’t want to. That he yearned for Ian to coax him into meaningful human interaction. But he just had to put up some mild kind of fight to preserve his own sense of self. And that was fine. Ian only cared about the end result.

When the doorbell light went off on Thursday afternoon, Ian mimicked a little surprised face at Franny, signing and saying aloud, “I wonder who that is?”

She giggled and stuck her arms out in an ‘I don’t know’ gesture.

Ian swooped her up and carried her to the door, opening it to a very unsure-looking Mickey, who was sort of squirming and biting his lip as he gazed between uncle and niece apprehensively.

“Oh, hi Mickey!” Ian said as if he weren’t expected, and Mickey blanched at not being signed at, but rather having to read lips.

Mickey signed back, and then Franny did too.

Ian smiled and waved him in. He sat his niece back down on the carpet where she was playing with dolls and blocks, and gestured to Mickey to join him on the couch.

“I tend to talk aloud most when I’m around Franny,” he signed. “She understands and uses a lot of ASL, but it’s better for our interactions on our own.”

Mickey nodded. “No worries, man. I can read lips.”

“I still usually sign too, but sometimes I have my hands full, you know.” He shrugged.

“Is it scary? Being responsible for her?”

“Sometimes. But I’m pretty used to it now. It can get uncomfortable in public every once in a while, when people don’t get that I’m deaf. Sometimes it’s just other kids that are around her. Parents get all weird. Whatever, though. I’m not afraid that something’s gonna happen that I can’t handle anymore. At first, I just had doubts about that, because I overthink everything and whatnot. Just takes practice and getting comfortable.”

Mickey’s eyebrows knitted together. “Are you saying that the way you’ve been treating me is based on your experiences with a baby, Gallagher?”

Ian laughed. “I hadn’t actually thought about it that way, but I see the correlation.”

“Whatever,” signed Mickey with a roll of his eyes. “You’re gonna end up leading a fucking deaf group one day, I can tell.”

“A deaf group?” asked Ian.

“Uh, yeah. You’re the logical heir apparent to Martin’s throne.”

“You call the sessions ‘deaf group?’”

“The hell else am I supposed to call them? It’s a bunch of deaf motherfuckers sitting around in a group, getting emotional about fucking up their lives.”

Ian snorted, shaking his head. “It’s just funny how blunt you are all the time. And labeling everything. Most other deaf people I know don’t like reinforcing the disability, or even seeing it as a disability.”

“Well, you know how I feel about that PC horseshit. It’s part of my charm.” He paused. “Anyway, what the hell do you call it in your head, or when you mention it to someone?”

Ian shrugged. “Therapy?”

“Well, not all of us got to go to the fancy school for the deaf when they were kids, okay? This is the first time I’ve been a part of an all-deaf thing at all.”

“How’d you even learn ASL?”

“Mainly online. Did some in-class stuff, but even then, it was always a mix. Lotsa hearing people… educators, family members of deaf people…”

“Well, that’s why I think deaf group is good for you in more ways than one. Might even be beneficial to get more involved in the community.”

Mickey sighed heavily, rolled his eyes, and sunk down pointedly into the sofa. “Can you tone it the fuck down a bit for one second, Red? I still have another month of outpatient, and I ain’t makin’ plans for the next great adventure just yet, okay?”

Ian nodded, conceding. “Yeah, I know. I’m just saying it’s something to think about. Down the road. Can I get you a drink?”

“Vodka soda?”

“Sprite, coming right up!”

While he was in the kitchen, he decided to get everyone snacks as well. He filled up Franny’s sippy cup with grape juice, got himself a sparkling kiwi water, put some cheesy goldfish in a kiddie bowl, and some trail mix in a regular bowl, then brought it all out on a tray.

He stopped short when he found Mickey lying on the floor in front of his niece, building a castle out of large-sized, soft-edge Legos, as she gazed on in fascination. It was so cute. He didn’t know what exactly Mickey had been so afraid of. It seemed like he was pretty much a natural.

Ian walked over and sat the tray down on the coffee table, drawing both of their attention. After a momentary snack detour, they were all sprawled across the rug playing with toys. Mickey stuck to the building blocks, while Ian pranced some ponies around the structure crashing them into Mickey’s castle, and Franny alternated between stuffing dolls into a car and rolling it around, and trying to direct what the two men were doing so that it fit with her vision.

20 minutes into playtime, Ian could see that Mickey’s eyes were starting to glaze over, a far-off look making his boredom known. Ian had half a mind to reach over and just knock his hand away from where it was propping up his chin, just for a laugh, but ultimately he decided to be more diplomatic.

“Franny,” he signed and spoke aloud, “you wanna watch a movie before Mom gets home?”

She nodded and signed, “Yes.”

Ian nudged his friend and hopped up. “Don’t mentally check out on me yet, Milkovich. It’s still early.”

Mickey fixed him with a withering gaze. “I don’t know how you do this all day.”

Ian chuckled. “It’s not so bad. I’m more relaxed around her than 99% of adults.”

Mickey watched as Franny climbed up and settled herself on the couch, and Ian handed her the remote and her sippy cup.

“This mean we gotta watch some Disney princess crap?” he asked, then slowly got to his feet.

“I might be able to convince her to watch something that’s entertaining for us too. Have you ever seen _The Incredibles_?”

“Yeah, actually. Never saw the second one, though.”

Ian’s eyes lit up. “It’s really good too!” He turned to Franny then, pulling her attention away from the screen. “Mickey’s never seen _Incredibles 2_. Can we show it to him?”

Once he got her very important approval, he grinned and held his arms up in triumph. Mickey rolled his eyes and sat down in the corner of the sofa opposite from the toddler, leaving the middle for Uncle Ian.

The timing of Debbie’s arrival home couldn’t have been better, as the credits were literally rolling when she walked through the door. Franny made a beeline for her, crashing into her shins as she tried to put her things down.

Ian smiled, signing, “Hey,” when she looked over. “This is my friend Mickey I was telling you about,” he continued when her eyes raked over the stranger.

“Nice to meet you,” she signed, before picking up her daughter.

Mickey looked mildly uncomfortable, but replied, “You too.”

“I was thinking of ordering a pizza,” said Ian. “You want in?”

Ian wasn’t in charge of Franny’s dinner tonight, nor the household overall.

“That’s okay. I’m just gonna make it a SpaghettiOs night for her, and leftovers for me,” answered Debbie.

He glanced at Mickey. “Pizza? Or we can venture out into the crazy world and eat at like a deli or something.”

Mickey’s eyes narrowed. “Pizza sounds fine.”

Ian laughed and shook his head. “Shocker.”

He received a middle finger, before Mickey proceeded, “You act like I’m some delicate shut-in who's afraid of being in public. I’m not.”

“I never said you were afraid, but you’re obviously uncomfortable around new people and in new spaces. Which is fine. That’s pretty standard anxiety stuff. But it wouldn’t hurt to push yourself to just do shit anyway. May end up liking it alright when you get used to it.”

“Oh, is this the lecture portion of the evening?”

Ian caught Debbie giggling in his peripheral vision and shot her a look.

“Alright, we’re gonna be in the kitchen,” she signed with a gleam in her eye, and Franny on her hip. She waved and Franny imitated her as they walked away.

“You sure I’m not intruding on family time or whatever?” asked Mickey.

Ian snickered. “Not at all. Usually on the weeknight evenings, we do our own things. Sometimes we eat together if someone cooks or orders in, but unless the rest of our family is around, we’re pretty laid-back and give each other space.”

“You do a lot for your niece,” Mickey observed.

“Yeah, I know. But I like the responsibility, actually. Keeps me from spiraling and wallowing in all my worst traits and habits. If I need a break when Debbie can’t be here, I just drop her off at our old place and let the other Gallaghers handle her.”

“So this arrangement is like… permanent?”

“I don’t really know. I doubt it. Debbie could always meet someone. Or I guess I could. Or something else could happen. Once she graduates, it won’t be so hard, and once Franny’s in school, obviously, that’ll help a lot. We just can’t afford to do the pre-school thing, and I don’t want Debs dropping her at one of those shitty illegal South Side daycares like the one she used to run out of our house when she was 15.”

Mickey’s eyebrows soared. “That one of the old family hustles?”

Ian nodded, shrugging, “One among many. She did the best she could, but come on. It was pretty ratchet.”

“I guess that kinda makes you a father figure or something.”

“It’s the Fiona gene, I suppose. It’s not the worst thing in the world. Guess it prepares me for if I ever decide to have one or two of my own.”

“Fuck that shit. Life’s enough of a bitch just taking care of yourself. I don’t get why people wanna drag some baby into it. They’re all helpless and weak, and by the time they’re not, you’re just like, ‘Here, good luck kid, deal with it yourself.’ Seems rude as hell to me.”

Ian snorted. He'd probably been brainwashed into wanting kids by his fucked up family dynamic of a motley crew raising themselves, but he could see the logic in what Mickey was saying. Sometimes Ian felt like a part of all of them were eternal children that needed the companionship of other children to stay sane, which wrestled with the other part of them that had been forced into adulthood too soon, with no real concept of what that meant. Growing up without parental role models did a number on you.

Hence the therapy.

“I was thinking more like adoption or foster care,” he clarified. “Can’t really knock someone up, or shit a baby out of my ass, so…”

Mickey laughed. “I hope not.”

Ian felt a pang in his stomach, and reached for his phone, resting it on his thigh. “So… pizza… what’s your favorite place around here, and what’re your toppings?”

Upon deciding on a barbeque chicken style pie from Ian’s favorite local place down the road, he placed the order online, and they then started trying to figure out what to watch for the rest of the evening. Much to Ian’s amusement, Mickey got low-key excited when he scrolled through the ‘More like _Cosmos_ ’ suggestions, and they ended up settling on a different documentary series about deep space and scientific advancements on the physics of the universe.

Halfway through the first episode, before the pizza even arrived, Debbie appeared with a freshly bathed Franny in cute purple pajamas, passing her off to Ian for goodnight hugs and kisses. Once she was done with Ian, the toddler gazed at Mickey inquisitively.

Ian chuckled, saying and signing, “You wanna give Mickey a goodnight?”

She nodded her little red head yes, as Mickey simultaneously shook his head no.

Ian shifted her so that she could lean into Mickey’s space and buss him on the cheek.

“Thank you,” signed Mickey, looking uncharacteristically blushy. “Goodnight.”

As Ian handed the baby back over to Debs, he caught a little wink from her, and his brow furrowed in confusion as she walked away.

The rest of the evening was companionable, each of them managing to polish off one half of the large pizza as they learned about updated black hole theory and the mysterious Planet 9.

“Aliens definitely exist, obviously,” Mickey told him once the second episode finished, “but do you think they’ve ever come to Earth?”

Ian’s nose twitched and he itched it. “I don’t know, man. Doubt it. At least in modern times. I saw _Alien Autopsy_ , and it looked fake as fuck. Maybe some UFOs have actually originated extra-terrestrially, but I don’t think anyone’s sent actual beings down to make contact.”

“What if they have made contact, but like not physically? Maybe they’ve got some mind meld ability, or super advanced technology, or some shit. They could infiltrate brains, or airwaves, or monitor all our servers all over the world. Hell, they could be invisible, omnipotent, or any other shit for that matter. We'd never fucking know.”

“Whoa, slow down. You’re about to turn me into the _Ancient Aliens_ guy, and I’m not stoned enough for this conversation.”

Mickey groaned very obviously, tilting his head back into the couch, before he looked back at Ian. “Why’d you have to bring up weed, Gallagher? You think pizza and trippy space docs don’t make me crave that shit already?”

Ian paled. “I’m sorry. Really, I wasn’t thinking about that. It was just a joke.”

“Calm down, man. I know it was a joke. It just pisses me off that I can’t do something as simple as smoke a bowl with you. Copping a buzz off two puffs could send me to prison for a year or two. Can’t wait for this goddamn probation to be lifted.”

“Well, as soon as it is, I’ll bring over an eighth for you, and you can have at it.”

“Oh, so as soon as my ass is unmonitored, you’re gonna be my enabler?”

“Nope. I’ll keep you away from anything you wanna be kept away from. You said weed keeps you away from other stuff, so I trust your word on that. I’m not a 12-stepper.”

“You’re gonna smoke as soon as I leave, aren’t you?” Mickey frowned.

“I never said that.”

“You are.”

Ian shrugged. “Maybe.”

Mickey socked him in the shoulder. “I hate you so much right now.”

Ian laughed. “Punching people is what led to this, Mickey. Maybe you should think on that.”

Mickey gave him the double fingers that time. “Should probably get out of here.”

“Wasn’t so bad, was it? Meeting the girls; playing with Franny?”

“I survived,” he deadpanned back.

“You wanna start co-babysitting with me sometimes? Could make things interesting.”

Mickey made an exaggeratedly disdainful face. “Pass.”

“Whatever, she totally got under your skin and you love her.”

“She’s a baby. She’s fine, but I’m not impressed.”

Ian laughed and rolled his eyes. “We’ll discuss it more another time. You wanna go to the movies this weekend?”

Mickey’s mouth dropped open as if taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“Um… I thought that was pretty self-explanatory? The Regal in midtown has those closed captioning glasses. Best way to see something in the theater. I haven’t been in ages. It’ll be fun.”

Mickey looked skeptical. “I'll think about it.”

Once Mickey had gone home, Ian decided to stay in the living room and attempt to get some work done. He still had regular assignments to work on, and there was a looming midnight deadline on Saturday for a specialty piece on being deaf and gay. Honestly, Ian didn’t know how it was much different than being deaf and straight, but he was the go-to gay dude for the sites that liked his work regarding being hard of hearing, and the go-to deaf dude for the sites that wanted his gay perspective. If he had to pander to some of his “niche” qualities as a person sometimes for cash, far be it from him to withhold.

He was adding to the outline for the second half of his article with ideas to touch on before the conclusion, when Debbie reappeared in her nightclothes. He looked at her questioningly.

“Mickey seems cool,” she signed.

Ian nodded, but didn’t elaborate.

“What’s the deal with you guys?” she asked.

He sat his laptop aside. “What do you mean? I told you about him. He’s my new friend I met at deaf group.”

“Deaf group?”

Ian snickered. “That’s what Mickey calls it. Guess it stuck.”

“I just thought… I mean, is he gay?”

“Uh, yeah? Why?”

Debbie rolled her eyes and gaped at him like he was stupid. “Because maybe he’s boyfriend material?”

Ian’s head drew back as his brow drew together. “We’ve never even talked about dating, Debs,” he scoffed.

She pursed her lips. “Have you banged?”

“Jesus, no! I’m actually trying to get healthy, not bang the first guy my age that I get along with at group.”

“So you’re just friends?”

“Fucking… yes! That’s literally what I just told you.”

“Okay, but I think you two have chemistry.”

Ian rolled his eyes this time. “Yeah. People usually have chemistry with their friends. Why would I hang out with him, or bring him around Franny if we didn’t vibe with each other?”

“I meant romantic chemistry, you goober.”

He could feel his mouth opening and closing, because he didn’t know how to reply to that. “Look, when I say we’ve never talked about dating, I mean that we’ve never even flirted. I’ve never fantasized about him, I’ve never even thought about hitting on him. And he’s never made a move on me either. So, in conclusion, just because we’re both gay doesn’t mean we can’t just be friends. Which is what we are.”

Debbie smirked at him in a way that annoyed the hell out of him. “Okay then. But that’s a lot of words and defensiveness just to say you’re not interested.” She gave him one final pointed look, before signing, “Goodnight.”

He grimaced as he watched her retreat. He loathed when his family tried to tell him what was what when it came to his own fucking life, even if Debs was well-intentioned in this case. She’d seen, what, 5 minutes of interaction between them, and already decided that Mickey and him were meant to be? What kind of bullshit was that?

He tried to shake off her unsolicited opinion and get back to his work, but after 10 minutes of static brain, he said fuck it, closed his laptop, and retreated to the comfort of his room.

As he got ready for bed, his thoughts couldn’t help but stray back to Mickey. He genuinely hadn’t thought about trying to take their relationship farther than where it currently was. Ian was normally a pretty sexually active guy, and he’d dated around a lot in his 20s, gotten “serious” a couple times that never lasted long. But he was fucking 30 now, and that was forcing him to reevaluate a lot of things in his life. Part of this whole therapy thing was abstaining from his youthful pattern of behaviors… refusing to participate in them. He didn’t know if it was a permanent thing, he just knew that for now, he couldn’t function the same way he always had. It’d only get him the same results, and he was so fucking tired of those.

Mickey was great. Ian enjoyed his company immensely, in fact. He was someone who endlessly surprised him, and they had so much in common. It was good for him to have a friend like that. Ian was always fucking shit at making friends, especially with guys. He used to be quick to hop into bed with any dude who took one look at him, never really caring a whole lot about them even superficially. Lip had always filled the best friend role, and that was usually more than enough for him. Their brotherly bond was maybe the strongest in the whole family. But it was good to have an outside source of companionship, though. Especially now that Lip was so wrapped up in his own life, with kids and shit. Mickey was someone who didn’t know every single detail of Ian’s fucked up life, like Lip did. Didn’t see him as the kid he was when he was younger and fucking up all the time. There were no preconceptions, no legacy role to play. Ian could just be who he wanted to be right now, and see if Mickey accepted it. So far, he had.

Not dating Mickey wasn’t really even about Mickey as much as it was about Ian himself. Ian didn’t want to be with anyone at all right now. If celibacy was a thing he could do, and he had been doing it (or not “doing it”) for a couple months now, then _romantic_ entanglements were definitely avoidable.

How was he supposed to fucking fix himself if he immediately jumped on an opportunity to expend all his energy focusing on someone else?

And Mickey wasn’t exactly in a good place in his life either. Ian couldn’t throw a wrench in his friend’s recovery just for a chance at getting laid and maybe having some whirlwind thing that inevitably crashed and burned. It would only send him straight back to the bottle, or the powder, or the fucking needle.

For both their sakes, Ian and Mickey could not be a thing. They could hang out, they could confide in one another, they could kick back with a Coca-Cola and some Netflix, but they could not end up in bed together. And that was fucking that. Period.

Fuck Debbie for putting all this shit in his mind right before bedtime, too. All it did was make the same thoughts race around his brain over and over again as he tried to force sleep to come. He tried reading a book, and ended up throwing it halfway across the room after he kept reading every sentence three or four times without absorbing the words. It took him nearly 10 minutes to get through one goddamn page.

He cursed aloud and beat his pillow, wishing he could zone out to no avail. He ended up putting on _The Office_ for the billionth time, and staring at his laptop for hours before his eyes finally fluttered shut. Nearly 4 AM.

Walking into Friday session was nerve-wracking in a way it hadn’t been since his first week. He was running slightly late, but Martin hadn’t started yet, even though everyone else was already seated. He made brief eye contact with Mickey across the room, his lips barely quirking in an awkward semi-smile. Mickey tilted his head at him with a slight raise of one eyebrow, his arms crossed stoically, the way they usually were at the beginning of each group.

The first topic was ‘panic attacks,’ which didn’t really soothe Ian’s feelings of unease even a little bit. Yes, he had experience with them. No, they weren’t fucking fun. The one positive was that he’d finally learned how to control them and minimize them as much as possible so that they didn’t completely overwhelm and send him into hyperventilation to the point of dizzying nausea. He kept a paper bag in his bedside drawer as an emergency breathing regulator for the occasions where he felt a sudden onset. But the descending dread of them… the way spiraling thoughts suddenly manifested physically in these full-body throes of terror… the way they made you think of dying… the way they made you sob uncontrollably in a way that would be embarrassing if any other human were to witness it… Panic attacks were horrible. But hopefully his advice on breathing and coping techniques might help someone else in the room. It was probably something he should write about. He’s not quite sure why he never had.

After that, there was a prompt focused more on the addiction side of things. When those came up, he usually found a way to connect them to mental health stuff. It was kind of astounding how much both conditions went hand in hand. But this one was about cravings, and he didn’t really get those. I mean, unless you considered his casual cannabis use, or penchant for drowning himself in sex. But he usually didn’t play up those things too much. Martin always lectured him for liking weed, and although people did bring up sex on occasion, it wasn’t something that was generally dwelled on. It was more of an offshoot of relationships and whether or not you were good at them. It was probably fair to say that 80 to 90% of them were not great at healthily connecting, creating, and maintaining intimate partnerships. So he took a pass on that one.

The final hour was dedicated to ‘making amends.’ That was another one that was mainly about addiction, but it could also be applied to anyone who’d hurt someone with their behavior before. It’s not like mental illness didn’t create riffs between family members or friends. It did. But Mickey struggled to answer that one, and Martin pressed him in a way he only did every once in a while, when he thought it was important. Ian could tell that Mickey was agitated by it, and probably holding back a whole obscenity-ridden tirade, but that only meant that the counselor was actually getting somewhere.

“There’s not one person in your life that you think you owe any kind of apology to? No one who deserves an act of repentance? No reconciliation you ever fantasize about?” Martin asked him.

Mickey ran both hands through his hair, ruffling it up in frustration, which was something Ian had never seen him do. He bit is lip and stared at the floor for a beat as everyone watched him, waiting.

“Look, I know I’ve fucked up a lot in my life, and done some bad shit. I definitely have. But I can’t go around feeling guilty, or saying sorry to all the random people who got caught up in my shit when I was younger. First of all, how would I even find all those people? So much of that was out of my hands anyway. Shit I didn’t have a choice about. And the things I did that were my decision… I don’t know… it just feels like I was a different person then. I wouldn’t do any of that now.”

“But you did, didn’t you?”

Mickey blew out air and tilted his head back for a beat. “Yeah, because I was fucked up on whiskey. And you know what? That guy started it. I may have thrown the first punch, but he was mocking my fucking disability. Should I have just accepted it and walked away? Maybe. He definitely wasn’t worth all the shit I’ve had to deal with as a result. But I couldn’t help myself. It would’ve been hard sober, but drunk, it was impossible.”

“You’re still not getting to the point, Mickey. First of all, you need to think about taking more responsibility for your actions, even if most of the really bad ones took place a long time ago. We always have a choice. Even when it doesn’t seem like we do. Part of growing as a human being is realizing all your faults, and coming to terms with your past actions, the things you can’t change, and owning them. For better or for worse. So I want you to really think about that, but also… tell me about someone in your life that you might consider making amends to.”

“Fine!” Mickey signed brusquely, anger clearly written on his face. “You want me to fucking spill my guts? Fine! My sister! You know… the only person in my family I give two fucks about? She deserves better. There were things she went through… things my dad did… they weren’t my fault, but I didn’t protect her, okay? There were things that happened that I didn’t know about, and when I found out, I wanted to fucking kill him! I already wanted him dead for the shit he’d done to me, and to my mom, but not the way I wanted him dead for the shit he did to her. So yeah! I wish I could somehow find a way to make it up to her. But I can barely fucking take care of myself, so how the fuck am I supposed to do that?”

Martin paused pensively for a moment, before replying. “It starts with a simple honest conversation. Preferably in person, if she knows ASL, or you have your own method of face-to-face communication. I’m guessing you guys don’t talk about your family trauma. You usually keep things more superficial or current?”

Mickey nodded.

“So you make the decision to invite her over, and then you actually follow through with talking about the things from your past that you’ve buried. Tell her how you feel. Let her tell you how she feels if she’s open to it. And then you’ll know where to go from there. It could bring you closer together.”

Mickey’s eyes looked dangerously close to shedding tears, which sort of took Ian’s breath away. He wished that they’d sat next to each other, so he could give him a reassuring pat on the back. Although, perhaps Mickey was like a scared animal who would lash out if someone touched him right now.

They moved on, and Ian struggled to focus on himself again. He cobbled something together in his head, and distractedly related it when it was his turn, but he was anxious to talk to Mickey.

He waited outside the door for him while he got his documents signed, watching everyone else file past. Mickey almost didn’t see him when he emerged, so Ian had to grab his arm, which was jerked away forcefully.

Ian held his hands up. “Sorry.”

Mickey shook his head. “It’s fine. I don’t feel like doing the shitty dinner thing tonight, though, okay? Just wanna get out of here.”

“Okay. You want me to come with you? We could grab a burger or something.”

Mickey eyed him warily.

“I promise I won’t bring up anything heavy,” continued Ian. “I won’t ask questions or give advice. I’ll just keep you company for a bit. Don’t want you beating yourself up all night. Could drive you to the bottle or something, right?”

Mickey still hesitated, but finally relented. “Yeah, okay.”

He turned and walked briskly down the hallway, leaving Ian to follow.

  


  



	7. Week Seven (Nine)

Mickey was certain he’d never sat down to eat with anyone as many times as he had with Ian Gallagher, despite only having known him for a grand total of two months. Like, face-to-face, looking at each other, pausing to sign conversation, at a table, etcetera. Yes, he’d eaten with his family a lot, but that was always a ragtag, fend for yourself kind of thing, usually in front of the TV or something. Nobody waited for anybody, or timed it so that they were together, or even made sure that everyone had gotten a portion before finishing off what was made. And after his mom died, it’s not like anyone but his sister had ever gone out of their way to talk to Mickey. Unless Terry was ordering him around or making shitty disparaging comments for Mickey to lip read, he didn’t really give a flying fuck about communicating with his “problem” child. And his older brothers were just useless dipshits; not necessarily malicious, but just too dumb to try to have more to their relationship with Mickey.

He and Ian had fallen into this… rhythm. At first he kind of thought of the redhead as a barnacle that had attached itself to his ass when he wasn’t looking, but he was finally starting to fully appreciate Ian as a person who somehow saw value in being around him. They were surprisingly simpatico. They made some kind of sick sense together.

Ian didn’t annoy the fuck out of him. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. Being annoying seemed to be an innate part of who Gallagher was, but Mickey had grown to accept it. His annoyingness didn’t annoy him anymore.

They were sitting across from each other at a small table in the back of a little deli that Ian swore by, and Mickey had to admit that the sandwiches were pretty slammin’. The meat was piled high, it was perfectly toasted, and the sauce was on point. They came with large, whole, dill pickles on the side and Mickey found it hilarious that Ian’s eyes seemed really drawn to his mouth whenever he brought one up for a bite.

So much so, that he definitely needed to fuck with him about it.

“When’s the last time you got laid?” signed Mickey.

Ian was mid-swallow on his iced tea, and sputtered, coughing to keep it from going down the wrong pipe.

“What the fuck, Mickey?” Ian asked once he’d recovered and sat his glass down.

Mickey chuckled. “What, are we not close enough to ask about that kinda shit?”

“Not that; it just came out of nowhere.”

“Not really. You’ve been staring at my mouth every time I’m chowing on the pickle.” He picked up the half that remained and waved it at him, then tossed it back on the plate. “You hard up or something?”

Ian snickered. “I mean… it’s been a while, I guess. I’m trying to be a good boy.”

Mickey made a face. “Gross. You into some kinda dom/sub shit or something?”

“No!" Ian said with a laugh. “I just mean… I’ve been trying not to fall back into my old habits that I use to distract myself from fixing my life. I guess it’s like you with drugs and alcohol.”

“Sex addict?”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t go that far. I just tend to make bad choices when it comes to guys. And I guess I’m just kind of bored with dating around and just banging for fun. I’ve never really just been alone and not looking for anything. So, since I’m working on myself and all… I’m trying to abstain from vices.”

“Whatever floats your boat.”

“How long’s it been for you?”

Mickey shrugged. “A while, I guess,” he parroted.

“Then I suppose that means you’re pretty hard up too then, huh?”

Mickey simply raised his favorite middle finger.

But that didn’t deter Ian. He decided it’d be hilarious to pick up his as yet untouched pickle and seductively start licking it up and down in an exaggerated manner, slipping it past it lips and sucking the tip obscenely, shoving it in and out as he slurped.

Of course it was funny, but Mickey’s chest got a little tight, and he looked around embarrassedly to see if anyone else was getting a load of this spectacle. When he glanced back, Ian pushed the entire thing into his mouth, then let it shoot out and caught it with a smile, his lips glistening with saliva.

Mickey gulped, picked up a few potato chips, and threw them at Ian’s face.

“Hey!” signed Ian. “You do not waste the delicious, salty, chips of potato!” He picked each one up and ate it.

“Well, stop making a fucking scene by giving tiny cucumber fellatio over here, Jesus.”

Ian laughed again, and Mickey laughed with him, but there was a discomfort creeping in. Was he just about to get aroused by Ian and his dumbass sex joke with a vegetable? Was Ian _trying_ to arouse him?

Maybe it was like Ian said… Mickey was hard up. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d gotten laid. He had a really terrible concept of time, and he hadn’t exactly been Mr. Social Butterfly lately… until Ian came along.

God, he had to stop thinking about this immediately. They were about to go to a movie. He didn’t want to have his overthinking distracting him from being able to enjoy the film. Paying close attention was a must when subtitles were involved.

And this wasn’t a date or anything. It was just more of them hanging out, just like they had been doing. It just happened to be the first time Ian got him to go somewhere that wasn’t one of their houses, or the goddamn Center. That was what friends did… they went out and did things together, in public. They saw movies and grabbed lunch. They fucked around and made dumb sex jokes. They admitted when they weren’t getting laid, because they didn’t have to front.

This was all very normal friendship stuff.

They arrived at the theater half an hour early, and got their closed captioning glasses. Mickey let Ian deal with the interaction for that. When Ian got in the concessions line, Mickey grimaced.

“Fuck we in line for this shit for?”

“Candy, duh!”

He shook his head. “Thought you grew up poor, man? You don’t waste money buying this marked up shit here. You hit up the corner store on the cheap side of town and bring stuff in using pockets and sweaters.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure you used your five-finger discount too, but whatever, I’m legit now. I just want some sour gummy worms. And a Coke Icee. Maybe with cherry in it.”

Mickey sneered. “Horrible taste. At least get some damn chocolate.”

“Pick out what you want, Mick.”

“I ain’t paying 10 bucks for a box of Whoppers!”

“My treat.”

“Fuck off. I'm gonna Venmo you for the ticket price. I can go a couple hours without drink or snacks.”

But of course when Ian got to the front, he had typed out his order in his text to voice app, and Mickey couldn’t make out that he’d included items meant for him until the girl placed them all on the counter in front of them.

Mickey rolled his eyes and punched Ian in the arm, but took his candy and soda, following him to the auditorium.

They’d agreed on a gritty comic book villain film, and Mickey was actually low-key hyped to see it. He hadn’t seen anything on the big screen in at least a year. It was kind of a treat.

The movie ended up being really good, and he felt his mind clearing itself of all the dumb shit that had been crowding it. He melted away into the escape.

Ian had obviously enjoyed it as well, as he was practically buzzing with energy when they returned their glasses and exited the building. This was after an awkward interlude at the urinals where Mickey had to concentrate really, really hard not to openly glance over to check out what Ian was packing as they stood next to each other. He could sorta see it in his peripheral vision a little bit, but he stared resolutely at the wall in front of him. It felt like his thoughts were obvious, even though that was impossible. He just couldn’t help but be curious.

“You survived!” Ian jested when they got out to the street.

Mickey gave the two bird solute and immediately pulled out his cigarettes, pausing to light one and toss them to Ian. “Are you gonna make a big fucking fuss every time I achieve some basic feat of social performance for you?”

Ian grinned. “Yes.”

“I will eventually get tired of that, you know? And one day or another, you’ll end up catching my hands for something.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Sure, tough guy. So what do you wanna do next?”

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up. “There’s more?”

“Oh, uh, I don’t know. There doesn’t have to be or anything. I was just wondering if you wanted to keep hanging out? Is it too much?”

“I guess not.” Mickey shook his head. “I just keep getting the vibe that —”

Ian was the very picture of wide-eyed innocence, and Mickey suddenly felt like an idiot for assuming that there was some kind of romantic connotation to their hanging out. But now he’d also left that very clumsy sentence hanging.

“That?” asked Ian, taking a drag.

“Nothing, just forget about it.”

“Mickey!”

“Come on, Gallagher, it’s no big deal. Really. Just my dumb hands running before my brain catches up.”

Ian looked at him as if he’d lost his marbles, but signed, “Fine, whatever.”

“Yes, we can hang out,” Mickey finally answered. “Let’s just go to my place, so there’s no forced babysitting. No more Barbie castles for me.”

Ian smiled. “No offense, but I really wish you could smoke weed right now.”

“No offense, but fuck you for rubbing that in my face. If I can’t alter my state around you, then you shouldn’t be able to alter your state around me.”

Ian mock gasped. “I never agreed to that at all. I’m not your sponsor, remember.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re an all-around nice guy, and you’d show me solidarity just outta the goodness of your own heart.”

Ian laughed in delight, and grabbed his chest. “Mickey Milkovich, that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Mickey really wished he could prevent it, but the blush that flared up from his neck all the way to his crinkled forehead couldn’t have been more obvious against his pale skin.

_What in the fuck was going on with Ian?_

He wasn’t acting super different or anything, there was just some newfound kind of _awareness_ settling in that made Mickey’s insides tense up, then flutter nervously like a rogue butterfly.

When he spied Ian lounging across half of his couch like he owned the place, a ripple of distress coursed through him. A part of him wanted to lash out even, like _‘who the hell gave you the right?’_ Who the hell asked this idiot to weasel his way into Mickey’s entire life and apartment, which had been perfectly adequate without him? How did Mickey become suddenly susceptible to hanging out with babies, and letting some dude buy him movie candy?

His face contorted into an expression of indignation as he approached the sofa, words of resentment and outrage flying through his brain at a furious pace. But then Ian looked up at him with his wide green eyes and wider smile, and all the negativity building up inside of Mickey dissipated as quickly as it came.

“You got any board games or anything?” signed Ian.

Mickey rolled his eyes and flopped down next to him. “No, because I’m not a grandpa or a child. Video games, dipshit. Take it or leave it.”

Mickey thoroughly enjoyed handing Ian his ass in every game they attempted, even if he did end up with a bruised shin from Ian kicking him in frustration over his constant failure.

Monday’s deaf group was going fine, with coasting topics like personal growth, healthy pain management, and effective communication. But then they got into conflict resolution, and for some reason, Martin jumped on the opportunity to press Mickey on the subject. To be fair, that one made sense, since he was in there for cracking skulls over being taunted by a random drunk in a bar, but he still loathed being put on the spot over things that were hard for him to articulate. How the fuck was he supposed to know how to resolve conflicts without big outbursts of emotion that usually devolved into physical violence? Sure, he could parrot some generic crap that everybody else had said, and he’d started to, but Martin cut through the bullshit.

Ian eyed him apprehensively at first, but then nodded at him in encouragement. Mickey knew Ian wanted him to take this stuff seriously, and allow Martin to push him to uncomfortable places sometimes. The support gave him a small amount of confidence, but he still hated the feeling of naked exposure. He struggled to come up with the right words to express himself, because this was stuff he didn’t think much about, certainly not to the point of finding answers within. He mostly ended up just taking Martin’s lecture, and promising to work on some anger management worksheet crap and turn it in by the end of the week like a good little third grader.

Ian walked over and clapped Mickey on the shoulder once the session was over, signing that he’d wait for him outside, then doing a dumb thing with his eyebrows as he did his nerd-ass ‘Taco Night’ dance. Mickey flipped him off and gathered his things so he could get his damn court papers signed, sighing at the fact that he still had another goddamn month of this crap to deal with.

It wasn’t unusual for Mickey to be the last one out of the room at these things, unless someone else was jonesing and in need of an extra talking to, so he milled around in the background until Martin acknowledged him.

The signing and dating of the paper in his file took no time at all, but Martin made it a point to hold him back a moment afterward.

“So… you and Ian, huh?” he signed.

Mickey shrugged. “What do you mean? We’ve been friends for a while now.”

“Just friends?”

Mickey’s mouth fell open. “Yeah… just friends.”

“I’m not trying to cross any boundaries or make you uncomfortable, Mickey, it’s just that you never talk about sexuality or romantic attachments. Ian sometimes does. I just thought that maybe you two might have gravitated toward each other for more than one reason.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no. I don’t date. He’s trying not to date. Pretty sure no one is dating anyone, and I would’ve noticed if I’d suddenly gotten laid for the first time since I can remember.”

Martin chuckled and put a hand on his shoulder. It felt a lot more awkward and unwelcome than when Ian did it. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t have romance or sex in your life. I hope that one day you do. When you’re healthy. And if Ian’s involved, then I hope it’s when he’s healthy too. Just think about timing when you make any big decisions, okay? This is a slow process, recovery, and you have to be patient and do all the steps. I want you to be one of the success stories out of this shitshow. And I want Ian to be one too. I’m glad you’ve become such good friends. You need people in your life, whether you want to admit it or not. Remember that.”

And without further ado, he grabbed his shabby little satchel briefcase thing, and headed out, Mickey staring after him mouth agape.

He ended up spending taco night mostly zoned out, overthinking Ian’s every gesture and expression, then floating his way home barely present.

He had work to distract him on Tuesday. A regular site that contracted him out wanted him to add a new feature page. Nothing too complicated, but it gave him something else to focus on. Until Ian started texting him…

> Mickey, I have no fucking ideas today. I can’t even type one sentence.
> 
> Looks like you just typed two.
> 
> Har har. I meant like actual writing. You know what I meant.
> 
> Ok, how is that my problem?
> 
> I’m messaging you to commiserate with my frustration.
> 
> Well, my coding is going fine today, so I guess you messaged the wrong person.
> 
> 🙄 You’re the worst friend.
> 
> I ain’t the one fucking up my productivity. Did you mistake me for someone to come to for a pep talk?
> 
> I guess you’re just the first person that pops into my head when I pick up the phone these days.

Mickey froze and reread that last text over and over again, feeling that spiral in the back of his mind widening again, working itself up to a spin.

What did that _mean_?

Ian was always talking about his smart-ass Irish twin brother being his best friend. If he wanted encouragement or some stupid shit like that, why wouldn’t _he_ be the first person Ian would go to? What could Mickey possibly do to boost Ian’s writing confidence?

> Aren’t you just distracting yourself? Just hide your fucking phone and close the internet browser on your laptop.
> 
> Then how would I do my research?
> 
> What’s the median research to social media ratio?
> 
> That’s not the point. When I need to look something up, I have to look it up. Unless you’re suggesting I drag my ass to the library and pull out a bunch of dusty books.
> 
> Pretty sure that’s what real authors do, Gallagher, but you do you. Just stop bitching at me about it.
> 
> So sorry to disturb you with my petty problems. Not like I'm ever there for your grumpy, stunted-growth ass.
> 
> Oh, I didn’t realize you were just doing it for the reciprocation. If so, you picked the wrong target. Pretty sure I've mentioned that to you once or twice.
> 
> You can try to keep shaking me, Milkovich, but it’s not gonna work. I’m here to stay.

Mickey was beginning to be afraid of that very thing.

He felt grateful that Ian’s familial and work obligations took up all his extra time until the end of the week, because it gave him the space he needed to deflate the nervous bubble he’d cocooned himself inside of.

And then Ian came over on Friday night.

The redhead was both excited and apprehensive about only having one week of group left to attend. The reminder of Mickey soon having to go it alone the last couple weeks of therapizing was distinctly unwelcome, however. What the hell was he gonna do without his anchor/buffer/touchstone? Ian was pretty much the only reason he was still even complying with that bullshit, and he was afraid of recidivism if he couldn’t handle it without him. Maybe even relapse. But it wasn’t fair to put that onus on Ian. He was just trying to figure out his own shit, even if Mickey still didn’t completely see what was so wrong with his mental health in the first place.

Video games were off the table, Ian being a sore loser and all, and Mickey’s shin still being yellow and purple from getting kicked so much the last time. They decided to put on _The Walking Dead,_ since it was pretty mindless and they’d both seen it before, so they didn’t have to pay full attention.

Sometimes it was hard for Mickey to hang out like this without even being able to crack a beer. He couldn’t even remember how old he was when he’d had his first drink. Probably around 11 or 12. It was from a cheap whiskey bottle he’d found lying on the floor next to his passed out dad. He’d spit it back out immediately, and Iggy’d caught him, laughing up a storm.

“Gotta mix that shit with some pop, dumbass, or else your scrawny ass will die.”

Mickey’d read his lips, then he’d found an RC Cola and poured it in with what little remained of the brown liquid. It was definitely better, but he still didn’t really get it. His first cigarette, he was probably 9. He stole some from his dad’s pack and ran a couple alley’s away. He probably hadn’t even inhaled, but he felt cool doing it. His first joint wasn’t long after his first drink. He was maybe 13. He didn’t get high the first time, which pissed off his older brothers, thinking it was one more defect of Mickey’s. But then the next time he’d given it a shot, it’d blown his mind. He was mercifully alone, and just laid down on his bed, closed his eyes, and zoned out. He saw all kinds of colors dancing behind his eyelids, and his body felt weightless. His oldest brothers started doing meth when Mickey was about 15, and he’d tried that too. It gave him an amazing high, sure, but when he saw the way it made other people act around him, he came to the conclusion that it wasn’t worth it. And the meth heads that came knocking on their door when his dad was putting that shit on the market instead of coke were not typically pretty sights. The gateway continued as he worked his way through coke, and PCP, and MDMA, and fucking heroin.

But alcohol was still what he missed the most in these… social situations. Well, that and the pot. Gallagher was probably a fucking goofball when he was stoned. Maybe one day, Mickey would find out if that was true.

So they sat there with fucking sodas and cigarettes, shooting the shit about random stuff, making fun of the stupid decisions characters made on the show, while laughing and cringing at the more gnarly zombie kills. It was good, wholesome fun, he supposed, and a better way to spend his Friday night then wallowing alone and jonesing for a bottle or a baggie.

“Who do you think is hotter,” asked Ian, “Rick or Daryl?”

Mickey looked at him like he was nuts. “Obviously Daryl. He was down from day one. Rick was a clean-cut fucking cop before the world went to shit. Don’t care how hot a cop is, would never bang one.”

Ian rolled his eyes, but smiled at the twisted logic of it. “Yeah, but the whole point of Rick’s arc is that he became someone totally different. Daryl was always a dirty kind of low-life who ironically developed a conscience after the apocalypse happened, but he still stayed dirty and stoic. Rick became hotter the dirtier and crazier he got. Come on, man… the fucking salt-and-pepper stubble… and the curls. Rick’s the man.”

“The man who got a shitty ending during a shitty season,” signed Mickey.

“That’s the kinda thing you blame on a bad writer’s room, not the character.”

“Oh, right, I’m sorry… Mr. Serious Author over here.”

“I can’t abide shitty writers fucking up their characters and storylines, okay? _Game of Thrones_ pulled the same crap on a much better show, and look how angry literally every fan got by the final episode. They didn’t blame the fictional characters on screen, they blamed the fucking showrunners who should’ve done better behind the scenes.”

“Jon Snow or Jaime Lannister?” asked Mickey.

“Gonna have to go with the sister-fucker,” said Ian.

“Gotta go with the bastard king of the North, always.”

“Robb Stark or Gendry Baratheon?” countered Ian.

“Gendry in his little row boat.”

Ian shook his head. “Robb was way hotter.”

“Didn’t save him from getting played like a little bitch, though, did it?” signed Mickey. “Damn, you really got a thing for pretty boys, huh?”

“I’m pretty sure literally every actor behind the characters we’ve mentioned have done print modeling, so none of them are exactly trolls.”

“But you don’t go for the grimiest ones.”

“We didn’t even talk about the grimiest ones. You’d have to bring up like Tormund, or the Hound, or fucking Theon when he was all Reeked out. I bet you have a Negan boner, too.”

“Jeffrey Dean Morgan is just universally attractive. I don’t make the rules.”

Ian laughed. “Fair enough, but his character is a piece of shit.”

“Villains are always more fun, prissy-pants.”

“So you were like rooting for Joffrey and Ramsay Bolton?”

“Didn’t say I root for them, just that they’re fun to watch.”

Ian shook his head. “You’re probably half-psychopath aren’t you?”

“Well, technically, considering who my father was, yes.”

Ian’s expression sobered for a moment as they stared at one another, but then Mickey cracked a smile and they both started laughing.

Ian punched him in the shoulder. “Asshole.”

“If you were gonna write a show with a bunch of hot guys in it, what would it be about?” signed Mickey.

“I don’t fucking know. Sometimes little ideas will pop into my head, but they always fade away. It’d probably be some exaggerated version of a part of my life or who I am, I guess. People fucking up, but surviving. It’d be like half comedy, half drama.”

“How explicit would it be?” Mickey arched one eyebrow high with interest.

“Definitely premium cable tier. Lotta cussing. Lotta ass. Maybe could even flash some dick once in a while. You can barely get away with tits anymore, which is fine by me, but like even though _Queer as Folk_ was a terrible show, they literally had bare dicks in like almost every episode. And a lotta gay fucking too.”

Mickey licked his lips. “Never seen it. Mandy tried to get me to watch it once, but it was way too fucking gay.”

Ian threw his head back in a deep cackle. Mickey always kind of loved when that happened. “Were you offended?”

“By how fucking gay it was? Yeah. I’ve been to Boystown. It’s not even half as gay as that fucking show.”

“What’s wrong with having something be unapologetically, over-the-top gay every once in a while? We rarely get that.”

“Hey, you just said it was a fucking terrible show!”

“Yeah, because the writing was trash, not because it was too gay! The only reason I watched the whole damn thing is because it was all gay, all day.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m not _that_ kind of gay, if you hadn’t figured that out by now.”

“Couldn’t even stay for the cocks and the soft porn, huh?”

“Nah, cuz I can just watch actual real porn with actual hard dicks, and it does a whole lot more for me. If you wanna jerk off to some soft, bad actor cock and simulated sex scenes, that’s your unfortunate business.”

“Look, in one way or another, the show was good for our rep. Did it make us all look like trashy sluts? Maybe a little. But it was still groundbreaking despite being problematic.”

“Okay, I feel like I’ve wandered onto some kind of television discussion panel that I wasn’t aware of being invited to. You find me a gay show that fits my style, and I’ll watch it with you, but for now we can stop fucking talking about it. Unless you want me to switch over to Pornhub or something.”

Ian laughed again. “Jesus, I can’t even remember the last time I platonically watched porn with someone. Seems so pointless when you think about it.”

“Definitely kiddie shit. You grow up, you turn it on, you get off, you immediately close it out and never wanna see it again. Unless it’s really good and you put the link in your secret wank folder.”

“Isn’t it sad when you click on one and the video’s been removed for copyright infringement?”

“The worst. And then you do a desperate search to find it somewhere else.”

“And it always fails.”

“And then you have to sad-wank to a lesser video.”

They both laugh again, briefly turning toward the TV and a violent zombie herd take-down, then back to one another.

Those thoughts that Mickey had been having lately about Ian… his intentions or whatever… his dating potential… the way he sometimes acted or said soft things… the way their counselor saw a prospect there… the way they talked about sex, or lack thereof… the occasional glimmer Mickey seemed to catch in Ian’s eye when he was grinning at him… they all flooded his brain at once, in an overwhelming manner.

They were still just looking at each other, and the beat had gone on way too long, and no one made a move to sign anything, or look back toward the show. They were just staring.

And Mickey felt a swell of irrational emotion, so before he could think twice, he just surged forward and laid an awkward kiss on Ian’s lips.

He could tell that Ian was taken aback by the way he froze up, but just as Mickey began to pull away from the prolonged, closed-mouthed smackeroo, Ian relaxed and leaned in, taking Mickey by the waist for a moment and letting the tip of his tongue flutter across Mickey’s lips just for a second. And right as Mickey was going to get into it, and kick it up a notch, Ian pulled away, a look of panic on his flushed face. For a moment he held a hand to Mickey’s chest as if to keep him at bay.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Mickey started signing.

Ian pulled his hand away, furiously shaking his head. “No, you don’t have to be sorry. It’s not that I… I mean, I have been thinking that maybe… you and I… but it’s just not a good idea for us to do this. Not right now. You’re in recovery. I’m in the middle of trying to manage my mental health crisis.”

“So that has to mean we can’t do anything together?”

“Yes. Of course it does. Because I care about you a lot, and I care about our friendship, and I could never just be casual with you. If we tried to be something serious right now, when we’re both supposed to be working on ourselves so we can be better people… that’s just a set-up for failure. And I don’t want that. I want to keep you in my life.”

“Yeah, I understand,” signed Mickey, even as his face fell and he felt devastation settling deep into his bones.

Ian knocked his chin up with a gentle knuckle. “Hey, please don’t get down or hurt about this, okay? I’m not… it's not me rejecting you. Maybe one day we’ll have our shit sorted out, and we’ll both be better candidates for dating. I already told you how I feel about staying away from guys right now, and that includes you along with everyone else. It’s definitely a _me_ thing. But you should be thinking about yourself too. No matter how hard it is, you have to focus 100% on yourself right now. And I’ll be here to support you. But we can’t push it farther. Not right now. It’s just… really bad timing.”

Mickey nods really quickly, like he understands. And really, he _does_ understand. He knows that Ian’s right. It’s the same advice that Martin had given him to a T. Even if it fucking sucks, planting sexual, or emotional, or romantic attachments before they get clear of all their bullshit is a terrible idea. He’d probably ruin his relationship with Ian completely within a month or less. And he did need Ian. In any way he could have him. This may just be his first real friendship in his entire life. He could abstain from letting his dick ruin that.

“No, I know you’re right. I do. We shouldn’t put any pressure on ourselves, and we shouldn’t use each other as distractions. Being alone is the right choice.”

“Not alone,” signed Ian, bumping their knees together and knocking his forehead into his. “But just friends. For now.”

“Yeah.”

Friends.

For now.

  


  



	8. Week Ten (Eight)

Ian’s anxiety was definitely flaring up as the Monday of his final week in therapy approached faster by the minute. He lied in bed, eyes wide open, soft green light glowing from his bedside lamp to help with his migraine, fully aware that he was going to have a rough time falling asleep, even once he started trying to.

As long as he could keep his thoughts and memories from spiraling so far out of control that they triggered a panic attack, then losing sleep was an okay price to pay. This new medication the clinician had prescribed was doing fuck all to adjust his circadian rhythm. He was still staying up half the night, as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as a depressed person could be.

When he’d started this whole group therapy experiment, he was so low and numb to everything that he didn’t give a flying fuck if he woke up the next morning, or an asteroid destroyed the Earth and everyone on it. He’d lost interest in everything. He went through the motions with certain responsibilities he couldn’t shirk, like taking care of Franny, and earning enough monthly income to stay comfortably afloat. But that was it. He found no real joy in any of it. Most people who never struggled with depression assumed it was all constant waterworks and devastation, but those were just small bursts that were usually kept private. It mostly consisted of just not giving a shit about anything and not being able to make yourself change that. It was more apathy than sadness. Although, there was a lot of moping and lying around, plus heaps of feeling sorry for himself, and then also hating himself for even thinking he deserved pity or anything else.

And now he was a mere three sessions away from being discharged, despite not being remotely cured. It was extremely daunting.

On top of that, there was the whole Mickey thing. Mickey, who still didn’t really understand what was so wrong with Ian, because the way their issues manifested were so different. Mickey, who thought he was closed up tighter than a drum, but in reality was an open book. Mickey, who fucking randomly decided it was a good idea to kiss Ian on the couch two days ago.

Ian was a lot more private about his struggles, and he didn’t tend to break down in places where people could see him. He also liked to keep his feelings so close to the vest, he could barely even discern them himself sometimes. He hadn’t even realized that he wanted Mickey to kiss him until it was in the middle of happening. But as much as he’d wanted to give into the urge to take it farther, he knew he couldn’t. He even did that stupid “mental STOP sign” technique that he’d always found eye-rolling when suggested. Yet he supposed it worked. He’d effectively shut that shit down before it could really start. And he hadn’t seen Mickey since.

They’d left it in the least possible awkward place by the time he left the apartment that night, but it obviously still weighed on him, and he knew Mickey enough by now to be sure it was weighing on him too. They still checked in with each other.

Ian was really worried that Mickey’d go buy a bottle or cop something somewhere, but he said that he hadn’t and Ian trusted his word. He really did believe Mickey had it in him to stay sober, but he also knew how rough it could be in the beginning. Ian may not have required rehab and intervention to stop doing hard drugs when he was younger, but he’d still felt the withdrawals. For him, it was more social than physical. He’d missed the thrill of being out, surround by people, being wanted and admired, even if it was just for cheap thrills. Even if it was with people who could barely talk to him. It was attention. Something he lacked quite a lot of growing up the way he did. For Mickey, it was something else. It was that deep-seated kind of addiction that begat powerlessness. It wasn’t just something to kick cold turkey and move on with your life.

So he worried about him. Worried about turning him down just as much as he worried about what would happen if he didn’t turn him down. Once upon a time, sex added to an existing friendship would’ve meant nothing to him. It would’ve been so easy. It would’ve boosted his mood and his self-esteem even. But it would’ve been selfish. A selfish part of him that not only worked against Mickey, but Ian’s higher self as well.

This was Ian being a responsible adult, even though he was fucked in the head. He should get a goddamn medal.

There was just too much going on and he didn’t know what the hell to do with himself. He couldn’t even write about it. He hated writing anything too personal anymore. Preferred to fictionalize it to some degree, so as not to examine too closely, or expose himself to too much criticism leveled at the very core of his being.

He couldn’t do anything but wait. Wait for the tide to turn. Wait for all the small steps to amount to bigger ones. Wait for his big break to present itself. Wait for the right time to figure out what to do about Mickey.

His entire life felt like it’d been one giant waiting game. He was sooooooo fuuuucckkiing tiiiired of _waiting_. What a cosmic joke.

So there he was, doomed to his restlessness, unable to sustain his attention with anything he tried to distract himself with. So he let the computer stream some bullshit until the sun came up and eventually passed out.

Despite the enormous temptation to chain himself to the bed all day until he had to leave the house, he also wanted to push himself to get rid of his nervous energy, so when he finally rolled out of bed at 2 PM (Franny was staying with Fiona that day), he mechanically got ready and went for a run, pushing himself maybe harder than he should have. He was exhausted when he got home, and sat down in the shower to bathe the stink and sweat away.

He was standing outside of the center finishing his cigarette when Mickey arrived, and they made awkward eye contact, greeting each other with unenthusiastic waves. Ian took a small step forward, part of him wanting to hug Mickey, but then he realized that might be weird right now, so he stepped back with a frown.

They stood in front of each other and silently finished their cigarettes before Ian signed, “You still doing okay?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, his movements harsh as he replied, “Fucking yes, I’m fine! Jesus fucking Christ! You gonna keep treading on eggshells or what?”

Ian sighed. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be weird. I really am just worried about you.”

“Yeah, well, worry about yourself.”

“I am. I’m freaking about myself too. It’s a combo deal.”

“Just… act normal. Pretend like I never tried to make a move on you, okay?”

Ian grimaced. “That’s dumb.”

“You’re dumb,” Mickey countered quickly.

They stared at each other for a beat, then burst out laughing.

“Good one,” said Ian, shaking his head.

“Let’s just go the hell inside and get this shit over with, okay?”

And get it over with they did, but Ian couldn’t help himself from paying closer attention to Mickey than he even normally did during the session. His eyes just kept getting drawn back to him, but then Mickey would catch him, and he’d look away. It was very high school drama of him. Part of Ian was worried that Mickey wouldn’t even want to eat together like they normally did, but they ended up in their usual spot afterward, even if they focused a lot more on their food and didn’t really take breaks to talk.

It all felt very stilted, and Ian hated it. He asked Mickey if he wanted to hang out after, but he begged off, saying he had work to do.

“Tomorrow then?” pressed Ian.

“I don’t know. I really do gotta get this shit done.”

“You know I feel like total shit, right?”

Mickey’s eyes and mouth widened, but he didn’t respond.

“Not saying it’s your fault,” Ian continued, “just that in general, right now is a really bad time for me… emotionally or whatever.”

Mickey’s shoulders sagged. “Shit, I’m sorry, okay? If you need me to come by or something, I will.”

“I might wanna be alone anyway, who knows how the hell I’ll feel tomorrow. Sometimes I wish I'd never asked Debbie to move in with me. But other times, I’m eternally grateful.”

“Just text me like you always do, alright? If you want to hang out, then I will.”

Ian nodded. “Thanks.”

Turned out, he didn’t feel like company after all. He got Debs to work it out so that Franny wasn’t in his charge at all that week, because he couldn’t handle the responsibility. She was cool about, since she knew the drill by now. He still managed to force himself to go jogging, though. Still pushed himself to go longer and harder. At least it made his body feel alive. The entire rest of the day was spent lying around in bed with his laptop.

He even got the extremely rare first text from Mickey in the late afternoon…

> Yo. You alive?
> 
> Unfortunately.
> 
> Jfc. It’s not that serious, is it?
> 
> No. I’m just numb.  🤷🏻♂️
> 
> You want some company?
> 
> I don’t think so. Sorry. Not much fun to be around anyway.
> 
> Well, if you can’t offer me a good time, then fuck off.

Ian snickered, and his mild smile lingered.

> 🖕🏻 I’ll be ok, I promise.
> 
> K. See you tomorrow?
> 
> Yep.

Wednesday went fine, but didn’t shift Ian’s mood at all. He was still in the hole. Fiona also informed him that she was throwing a dinner in his honor on Saturday, in celebration of him completing his group therapy. He tried to tell her that it was unnecessary. That he wasn’t even fucking cured yet. That he may never be cured. She insisted in that motherly way that he couldn’t refuse, and also informed him to bring his new best friend along.

Ian sighed, and texted Mickey the invitation. They’d seen each other barely an hour before, during another subdued post-group dinner.

> My sister asked me to ask you to come to a family thing she’s throwing me on Saturday.
> 
> Huh? Why?
> 
> She’s trying the whole “supportive” thing. Wants to make a big deal about me finishing up group. Even though I’m probly gonna go straight into 1-on-1 therapy asap.  🙄 But I can’t convince her that it’s not that important.
> 
> Still doesn’t explain why she asked you to invite me.
> 
> Because I’ve told her about you, dipshit. I’ve told all my siblings about you. It’s just a family dinner type thing. I doubt it’ll get too wild. Although Gallaghers tend to turn any excuse into a party. I don’t really want that though, and I can ask them not to drink if you think you can’t be around it.
> 
> You told them about me?
> 
> Duh. You’re like the only person I hang out with outside of them. They’re curious. If it’s too much, don’t worry about it.
> 
> Nah, I guess… How many of them are there again?
> 
> I have 5 siblings, and 3 nieces and nephews, plus some neighbors that are like family… a couple with 2 kids.
> 
> Jesus.
> 
> Like I said, if it’s too much…
> 
> Since you’re having this whole crisis bullshit, I’ll think about it.

Which was fine with Ian. He sort of oddly wanted his family to meet Mickey, but he understood the social anxiety completely. And their home wasn’t exactly the picture of serenity. He would try not to take it personally if Mickey decided to skip it.

Thursday rolled around, and Ian’s anxiety spiked to an astronomical degree. He couldn’t stop thinking about the next day being his final one in group. About the change that would bring to his life. And the work he was going to have to do to keep getting help. To find new sources for that. And then he wouldn’t even have that tie to Mickey anymore. Their friendship, or whatever it was, might just fade away if they weren’t careful. If they got selfish, or resentful.

So of course he had a panic attack around midnight. One that spun out of control and had him falling to his knees on the floor, curling up in sobs. The hyperventilating wouldn’t slow down, so he crawled over to his nightstand and pulled the emergency brown paper bag out to control his breathing. His clothes felt so heavy against his skin, and he didn’t want them touching him, so he threw them off, then resumed the measured bag-breaths. He didn’t have the energy to heave himself onto the bed, so he just stayed on the floor, even after he’d calmed down and the emptiness settled in.

Once he’d recovered enough from the fit, he folded the bag back up neatly, and got into bed, staring at the wall and trying to empty his head of all thoughts about himself and the state of his life.

Tired from the daily breakneck running and the mental meltdown, he mercifully passed out without even trying, bathed in the soft blue tint of the smart lightbulb he preferred late-night.

Mickey was waiting for him outside the center on Friday afternoon, giving him a once over before he unceremoniously informed him, “You look like shit.”

“Thanks so much, dickhead,” Ian signed back.

“You okay?”

“Not really.”

“Well, I guess you get to talk all about it in a few minutes.”

“Hooray.”

“Come on, man, it’s your last day; shouldn’t you be happy?”

“I don’t know. I’ve come to depend on the routine of it, I guess. And I’m scared what’ll happen next, because I’m gonna have to start making decisions.”

Mickey’s expression softened. “Look, Martin loves your ass. He ain’t gonna leave you high and dry. You’re gonna be fine.”

And then Mickey put a hand on Ian’s shoulder the way Ian usually put one on his.

He let out a shaky breath. “Okay, let’s get it over with.”

“That’s the spirit,” signed Mickey.

The session was surprisingly easy, and Ian felt equal parts relieved and disappointed. He was glad he didn’t have to rip himself wide open, yet annoyed that he didn’t get randomly prompted into some kind of cathartic revelation.

At the end of the day, he didn’t feel like he’d gotten enough of what he needed out of this program, but he always knew it was meant to be temporary and a kind of stepping stone.

Martin kept him behind afterwards, and Ian waved Mickey away, so he could have his final conversation with the counselor alone.

“Didn’t say much today,” signed Martin.

Ian shrugged. “Topics didn’t really get me going, I guess. Having a bad week, though.”

“Anxiety spike?”

“Yeah. I had a panic attack last night. Hadn’t happened in a while.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s natural to be scared of change, but you’re gonna be okay. You want some referrals? You really need someone to talk to regularly one on one.”

Ian nodded. “I know. I’d appreciate it.”

“How’re the meds working out?”

“I don’t know. Don’t feel much different. They’re definitely not regulating my sleep. Plus, the whole panic attack and everything.”

“Why don’t I schedule you in at the clinic on Monday? You can have one last consult with the clinician and change your meds, and I’ll drop off a list of referrals for you.”

He opened his satchel and took a small pad of paper and pen out, writing on it and handing it over. “Here’s my email address. If you need anything, just drop me a line. I’ll get your number from your file and text you an appointment time for Monday, okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“You’re gonna be fine, Ian. I promise.”

Martin reached out a hand and Ian shook it. “Thank you for everything.”

“You’re very welcome. Just keep doing the work, okay? It’s still gonna take time, and you just have to pay your dues. Know what I mean?”

Ian nodded. “Not looking forward to it, but I understand.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

Ian glanced at the cafeteria as he passed by, and saw Mickey sitting at their usual table alone. It made Ian smile ever so slightly. It was like Mickey refused to even try with anyone else from the group.

There was an extra tray on the table, which made Ian’s smile widen, but as he sat down he pushed it away in disgust, not because it was questionable chili with a side of green beans and a plain white roll (well, that was part of it), but mainly due to having no appetite whatsoever.

“The fuck, man?” signed Mickey. “I got the bitchy broad behind the counter to give me your rations and you turn your nose up?”

“Not hungry. Especially for this shit. I'll be lucky if I can stomach a yogurt before midnight.”

“That part of your depression shit?”

“Pretty much.”

“And yet your family is throwing you a dinner?”

Ian shrugged. “I just won’t eat all day, then shovel down what I can when I get there.”

Mickey heaved a big sigh. “I guess I’ll be there.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Your ass wouldn’t leave me alone when I was all fragile. Kinda owe you the return favor.”

“I told you—”

“Yeah, yeah, I don’t owe you anything, whatever. I wanna be there. Don’t make a big fucking thing out of it, okay?”

Ian grinned. “Okay.”

As they all collectively left the center, Ian stayed behind for a bit to say his goodbyes to some of the acquaintances he’d made, wishing each other well and exchanging a couple of numbers that probably would never get used.

He felt slightly better as he walked away, and the next day was just one shade brighter than the day before.

For the sake of preventing Mickey’s social anxiety from getting the best of him if he showed up alone, Ian invited him to meet up at his place and head over together. Debbie had a decent little Honda that happily accommodated all of them, and it was cute to glance at the back seat and watch Franny happily engage a still uneasy Mickey from her car seat next to him.

Carl and Liam were the only ones in the living room when they arrived, and Franny made a beeline for them as soon as they came through the door. Debbie gave a passing greeting and headed straight to the kitchen, leaving Ian to do proper hellos, forcing each brother to their feet for hugs and introductions to Mickey.

“These two are the least good with the sign language, so you’ll mostly have to read lips,” Ian informed Mickey.

“That’s fine,” said Mickey, accepting handshakes from them both.

“This your boyfriend?” Carl asked aloud, always the least informed and least tactful in the family (their father aside).

Ian saw Mickey make a face, knowing he understood. “No, asshole,” Ian replied with his voice, while also signing. “He’s a good friend.”

Carl shrugged and focused back on the television.

Liam signed, “Nice to meet you,” to Mickey, then continued, “I’m better than Carl.”

Mickey laughed and winked at him, then Ian grabbed his arm to pull him toward the kitchen.

Lip was sitting at the table with no kids in sight.

“Not your weekend?” signed Ian.

“Nah. Kids are out of my hair,” he signed back. “Should be out trying to get laid or something, but instead here I am.”

“Aw, you’re so sweet,” Ian replied, laying a hand on his chest as if touched.

Lip stood to hug him without prompting, and it lasted longer than it had with his younger brothers. He looked back to find Mickey already being roped in by Fiona in front of the stove, with Debs hanging back and observing, so he turned his attention back to Lip.

“That’s the dude?” asked Lip.

Ian may have involuntarily blushed just a little. “Mickey,” he spelled out, then showed him the shortened sign Mickey used for his name.

Lip nodded with a knowing look. “Just friends, huh?”

“Fucking fuck off. I told you, I’m not dating right now.”

“He know that?”

“Yes. He’s not dating either. It’s a whole non-dating agreement.”

“So there’s potential. And you’ve talked about it.” Lip smirked in that annoying way of his.

“Didn’t I _just_ tell you to fuck off?”

Lip held up his hands defensively. “Fine. Sore subject. I get it.”

“Just be cool, okay? Remember that I met him at group, and he has issues. Some you might even relate to.”

“Alcoholic?”

“And drug addict. Formerly. His sobriety’s going well.”

“So latent mental health shit too, I guess.”

“Definitely.”

Ian glanced back to see Mickey uncomfortably shifting from foot to foot, as no doubt Fiona barraged him with possibly invasive questions. He waved his arms to get his attention, and Mickey looked grateful when he noticed.

Fiona looked over as well, and Ian signed, “Will you take it easy on the poor guy. Give him a soda and let him come sit down.”

Debbie smirked and pulled an Orange Crush out of the fridge holding it up for Mickey’s inspection and setting it on the counter. “Is this okay?”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

Ian motioned him over once he’d picked it up. “This is the famous older brother I’ve told you about. Lip, meet Mickey.”

Lip shook his hand. “Can’t believe Ian made a new friend. It’s practically a miracle.”

“Why?” asked Mickey. “Because he’s so goddamn annoying?”

Lip laughed. “That and he usually just fucks anyone he meets. Never really tries to make friends.”

Mickey’s eyebrows went high. “Yeah, he told me he used to be a slut. Guess I met him at the wrong time.” There was a twinkle in his eye and a quirk to his lips, so at least he wasn’t clamming up cold.

Ian held up a middle finger in each of their faces. “So glad to have introduced you two. This concludes the roasting Ian portion of the evening, okay?”

“Says you,” signed Lip.

“So, Lip’s an alcoholic too, Mick,” said Ian. “Maybe you assholes can bond over that. I’m gonna say hi to Fiona.”

He made his way over to his sisters, hoping Lip wouldn’t reveal anything humiliating to Mickey while he was distracted.

“Oh, I finally get a greeting?” asked Fiona after she’d stepped away from the stove once more.

Ian rolled his eyes and hugged her. “What’d you say to Mickey?”

Fiona’s brow furrowed, but her smile remained bright. Sometimes Ian didn’t understand where she got that luminous grin. She could be a pill sometimes, but in terms of cheerfulness, she had them all beat by miles, despite having borne the brunt of all their parents’ bad choices. Well, Ian aside, he supposed. She was the one over-tasked with responsibility at an inappropriately young age. He felt like it would’ve made him have a much more bitter edge.

“Not much,” she signed. “The usual bullshit you say when you meet someone?”

Ian nodded. “Okay.”

“Relax,” she urged. “I’m not gonna embarrass you.”

“It’s not that. He just has social anxiety around big groups of people. Especially new ones.”

“Then I suppose I’ll try not to embarrass him either, okay?”

“See?” interjected Debbie. “He’s more concerned about Mickey’s issues than his own.”

Ian glared at her. “That’s not true. I just want him to be comfortable around you guys. Don’t say we’re never an inappropriate bunch.”

“Yeah, and Mickey knows the drill,” she replied. “He’s South Side. He made it through being deaf and gay just like you. Pretty sure he’s tough enough to handle us for one night.”

“I just don’t want to overwhelm him. I’m being a good friend.”

His sisters both narrowed their eyes at him in a way that filled him with unease.

“Have a beer or something and chill out,” said Fiona.

Ian shook his head. “Not drinking tonight. Solidarity with Mickey. And Lip, I guess.”

Fiona’s eyes shined as she smiled widely again. “Ian, is there—”

“Enough,” he cut her off. “Are the Balls coming over?”

“Nope. Something came up with the bar, and the kids are at their grandma’s.”

“Cool. This is a lot less chaos than I was expecting.”

“Then get the stick out of your ass and act normal,” signed Debbie, rolling her eyes and stomping away.

Fiona and Ian both shared an unimpressed look, and she bussed him on the cheek. “Go hang out. Food’s almost ready.”

Dinner consisted of spaghetti with a whole bunch of meat and vegetables in the sauce, unlike the plain noodles with a jar of Ragu thrown in that used to be a go-to when they’d been in much dire straits (i.e. the majority of their lives). Along with relative economic stability came better groceries and fancier cooking experimentation. Fiona had become a wizard with spices in recent years, and their taste buds were collectively thankful.

Ian let Mickey sit at one end of the table so it was easier to see everyone, and took the seat to his right. Overall, it was uneventful and devoid of any major drama, which Ian was grateful for. Mickey seemed slightly on edge about all the activity around him, but not in an alarming way, so Ian was able to relax and enjoy his family’s company. He did miss them all being together like this sometimes. Not always, but when it was good, he longed for the old days in their best moments.

To his surprise, instead of immediately going out for a smoke after dinner, Mickey insisted on helping Debbie clean up. Carl tried to get out of it, but Fiona ordered him to participate, then glommed onto Ian, pulling him outside on the back steps. Of course Lip followed, because he knew he would get in on some juicy gossip.

They all took a cigarette from Lip’s pack and lit them.

“So…” started Lip, “just friends, eh?”

Ian covered his face with both hands, took a drag, and exhaled heavily.

“I knew it!” signed Fiona, mouthing the words as well.

Ian gripped the smoke between his lips. “Fuck you both. It’s not like that.”

“Not like that my ass,” laughed Fiona. “I saw the way you were looking at him.”

“Too attentive for mere friendship, Ian,” Lip added.

Ian rolled his head around on his neck in frustration, then let out a yell, startling them both. “We kissed once, okay? Barely. Neither of us is ready for a relationship right now, and I’m not down to fuck either.”

His siblings glanced at each other.

“So what does that mean?” asked Fiona.

“It means that maybe one day if the timing doesn’t suck ass, and we’re both doing well enough for long enough, then things might… progress.”

Lip looked slightly stupefied, which Ian took some pride in. “You’re actually backing off and letting things take their natural course like a high-functioning adult?”

“Hey, I’m definitely a long way short of high-functioning, but in this case, yes, I want to take my time.”

“So you do like him!” Fiona looked thrilled.

“I don’t know, Fiona! I think so, yeah. But I have a lot of other shit to worry about right now, okay? Why is me being or not being in a relationship more important to you than my current mental health status?”

His sister frowned at him. “You know that’s not the case at all. I’ve just… never seen you bring someone around that you seem to fit with so naturally.”

“Why, because we’re both deaf and fucked in the head?” he asked with bratty, juvenile venom.

“No, because you just do. It’s called chemistry. You can see when it is or isn’t there. Doesn’t have to mean you’re soulmates or some shit, but you obviously get each other. So maybe it could be something… when you’re ready. Why can’t I be excited about that? Aren’t you?”

“I haven’t really thought about it that way. Too busy tripping over all my day-to-day bullshit.”

“He seems like a cool enough dude,” Lip chimed in. “Just handle it the way you think is best, man. We’re not gonna put you on the spot about it.”

“Oh, because that isn’t exactly what you’re doing right now?” asked Ian.

“We had to get the low-down first. Now we got it.” Lip smirked and took one final drag before tossing the butt down and grinding it into the wooden stairs with his foot.

“Lip,” Fiona spoke, rather than signed. “I told you to stop doing that shit. You want the kids wandering around grabbing cigarette butts?”

Lip rolled his eyes and picked it up to discard it in the closed, standing ashtray that had been placed on the small landing a couple years back.

By the time they were heading back in, Mickey was ready to come out to get his own nicotine fix, so Ian turned back around to join him, watching Mickey light up, but abstaining himself this time.

“So… what’s the verdict?” he asked his friend.

“Food was good,” signed Mickey. “Your family on the other hand…”

Ian felt simultaneously ashamed and defensive as he waited for Mickey to complete his sentence.

“They’re cool, Ian,” he finished. “Real nice.”

Ian exhaled, tittering breathily, and punching Mickey on the arm. “Asshole.”

Mickey laughed. “Dude, I told you about my family. I wasn’t exaggerating about it being a nightmare. Even though your parents were fucknut assholes, I would’ve killed to grow up in this kind of house.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Why’re you so uptight about it?”

“I don’t know. Just wanted you all to get along. I’m glad you did. That means you can come around more often.”

“Oh god, does that mean I’m gonna get invited to all the barbecues?”

Ian nodded. “Pretty sure.”

“Not always gonna say yes, though.”

“That’s your right.”

Ian crossed his arms and let Mickey smoke uninterrupted for a bit, noticing when his facial expression dropped as he stared at the ground.

Ian kicked at his foot to get his attention. “What’s wrong?”

Mickey shook his head. “Nothing.”

Ian pursed his lips. “Don’t lie to me. What’s up?”

Mickey flicked his cigarette butt into the yard without reprimand from Ian.

“Guess I’m just nervous.”

“About what?” asked Ian. “About me?”

“No. Well, yeah, in a way. I’m just… not looking forward to the last couple weeks of deaf group without you. Wish we could’ve started at the same time or some shit, that’s all.”

Ian’s face softened. “Mick, you’re gonna be okay. I tried to get you to make other friends, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“Yeah, because I’m sure Scratchy Magee, the meth-head, would be great friend material.”

“You know that’s not who I’m talking about, but whatever. I know you’re just gonna ignore me. If it’ll make you feel better, I can come and meet you after the sessions. Walk you home. We can even eat real food, instead that shit that sits under the heat lamps in the cafeteria all day.”

Mickey looked aghast that Ian would even offer that level of camaraderie. “Don’t be stupid, man. You ain’t gotta do all that.”

“I know I don’t. But I want to. You can’t just give up on group because I’m not there. It’s important. If me being there after will help, then I’ll do it. Not like we won’t be hanging out anyway, right? Or did you plan on dropping me as soon as I left the program and introduced you to my entire family?”

Mickey chuckled. “I _should_ drop your crazy ass.”

“But you won’t.”

“Probably not.”

“Then I’ll see you on Monday night at 7:30 sharp.”

“God, you really are relentless,” signed Mickey.

“Lucky for you, tough guy.”

The look that Mickey gave him then was overly fond in such a way that Ian had the urge to pull him in close and do something he shouldn’t. But he refrained, and basked in the fact that comfort had been restored between them.

No more tiptoeing.

Some things would still have to be held back, but just being there for each other and showing up when it counted… those things would remain. Out in the open, in broad daylight. No second-guessing.

He never wanted that awkward vibe to come between them again.

  


  



	9. Month Six

Sweat slowly dripped down Mickey’s temple as he pounded the punching bag with force and precision. His stance and form had gotten so much better, and he’d built a good amount of muscle in the last few months. His arms and pecs were looking particularly good, but he kept up with leg day too.

He’d taken up boxing about a month after he was done with deaf group, a suggestion from the guy who ran the anger management group he’d started attending on Martin’s advice once his time was up there. The last couple weeks without Ian had been a little boring, but the redhead had stayed true to his word and shown up after every session to lift Mickey’s spirits. He’d actually had a couple of breakthroughs as well, during some discussions that brought up his father and his legacy of abuse. The anger management thing was only once a week, and even though he wasn’t mandated to be there, the way Ian acted so proud of him getting his shit together of his own accord was enough to keep him going back. That, and he really didn’t want to fuck up again and land himself in jail. He’d be happy never to see the inside of another cell for the rest of his lifetime.

The boxing thing had been a fun, casual thing at first, but soon a trainer at the gym had approached him about basically taking it seriously if he was interested. It was a challenge getting into a rhythm with Sam, since he didn’t know a lick of ASL, and they had to navigate around the communication barrier, but now he was starting to take it to the next level. He’d sparred with some guys for practice, but the idea was to work up to actual amateur matches, and according to Sam, he was still a couple months away, give or take.

The sport really did fit like a glove, and a part of him wished he’d thought to get into it sooner. Maybe he would’ve avoided taking out some of his aggression in the wrong places, and kept himself from some of those metal motel stretches. Not only was it an outlet for his pent up hostility, but a great way to boost his endorphins without having to get high.

There may have also been a connection to his sexual frustration.

Ian had it made it perfectly clear that Mickey was allowed to do whatever he wanted, so long as he didn’t rub it in his face, but the reality was just that Mickey had no interest in anyone else. The two of them were practically joined at the hip at this point, despite sex still being off the table. Technically, Ian could do whatever he wanted too, but he was still on his great celibacy kick of 2020, so they were both still in the same sexless boat.

Ian was looking pretty good these days, too. He always had, but he started getting serious about his marathon training once he’d finally found some meds that worked for him, and he was lifting and running all the time. He’d also decided to grow a fucking beard for some reason, and although it wasn’t normally Mickey’s thing, apparently on Ian, it totally was. Fit and whiskery was driving him a little crazy.

His punches sped up, and he switched feet again to go from the right side. Ian had suggested changing over to Mickey’s gym so they could do their exercise routines together, but he’d quickly shut that shit down. No way was he gonna start having Ian around distracting Mickey in tight tank tops and snug sweatpants, breathing all heavily while his muscles bulged. Fuck that.

They trained separately, and their bodies were all the better for it. So yeah, it got pretty hard sometimes. _Resisting_. In fact, it was starting to piss Mickey off. Ian was terrible at hiding his affection for him, so he was beginning to lose the point of their abstention.

They were both doing well, so what the fuck was the problem?

Sam came into view behind the punching bag, holding up his hands and motioning for Mickey to wind down, which he did.

“You alright tonight, Mick?” he asked, Mickey reading his lips.

Mickey nodded, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms.

“Time’s up,” Sam continued, pointing at the clock on the wall. “You look tense as hell. Maybe get a massage or something.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “See you day after tomorrow?”

Mickey nodded again, grabbing a towel and wiping down his face, neck, and hair. He blew out a long stream of air, shaking his head as if it could shake thoughts of Ian’s physique, and smile, and manner right out of it. He hit the gym showers, so as not to be tempted to race home and jerk off. He was not about to pop a damn boner in public like a perv.

After his cold shower, he headed home, and who should be sitting on his couch all cozy-like, but the bane of Mickey’s existence himself.

_Unbelievable_. He’d given Ian a spare key a few weeks ago so he could drop off a desk he didn’t need anymore since he’d finally gotten a new one to replace his hand-me-down. Mickey had promised his sister that he’d spend the weekend at her place, since they barely hung out anymore. Ian had kept the fucking key without asking, and now apparently, he was just randomly showing up uninvited and letting himself in whenever he wanted.

After tossing his gym bag on the floor by the door, Mickey marched over to stand in front of his guest, who was busy clacking away on his laptop. He crossed his arms and stared him down until he finally took notice.

Ian’s eyes widened. “Hey, Mick! Shit, I didn’t see you come in.”

“What the fuck are you doing here, firecrotch?” signed Mickey with no small amount of annoyance.

“Sorry, I knew you were training, and I just needed to get out of the house quick. Franny’s been a little terror all day, and she pitched one too many fits, so when Debs got home, I booked it outta there. Didn’t know where to go. You know how it is at Fiona’s. No peace there either. I have this deadline.”

“How many goddamn times to I have to refer your ass to the library? It’s literally the place for people to go to read and write shit. They don’t even charge you a cover fee. Also see coffee shops.”

Ian looked slightly chagrined. “I don’t know, I just always feel so… formal or something in libraries. I can’t relax. Same with coffee places, because I feel like people are always looking at my laptop over my shoulder. I knew I could be alone here and get shit done. I should’ve texted you for permission.”

“Yeah, you should’ve.”

The look on Mickey’s face must’ve looked angrier than he thought, because Ian was starting to look a little scared. He grimaced and shut the laptop screen.

“I’ll get out of your hair.”

He fumbled around with his bag, and the notebooks and snacks he had spread across Mickey’s coffee table. That’s when the guilt started to set in. Was he really gonna punish Ian for his own horniness? It’s not like he knew that he’d been on Mickey’s mind all night, making him amped as hell because of it. At the end of the day, Ian was his best friend. He couldn’t kick him out and ruin his workflow just because he hadn’t adhered to social etiquette first. It’s not like Mickey was ever socially conscious.

He bent down, placing both hands over Ian’s to stop him. Ian looked up and met his eyes, and Mickey pulled away.

“Forget about it. Just… finish your shit.”

“Really,” Ian tried again, “I should go. It wasn’t right to—”

“Gallagher! Will you shut the fuck up?”

Ian’s expression betrayed his amusement. “My lips are always sealed around you.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Stop trying to flee the scene, dipshit. You’re already here. It’s too late. Open your stupid computer and finish your crap.”

“Are you sure?”

“If you ask me that one more time, I _will_ kick you out.”

That lethal smile blossomed on Ian’s bushy face, and Mickey was all but done for.

“Thanks, Mick,” signed Ian.

Of course the only proper response was a middle finger, and he retreated to his bedroom to panic alone for a while, pacing around in bare feet once he’d thrown his shoes and socks at the wall.

It wasn’t like shit had gotten weird between them per se, but it was just getting so fucking hard to stay in this friend zone trap they’d cornered themselves into. He had to wonder if it was ever this hard for Ian too.

They were going on _months_ of longing looks, teasing touches, and flirty one-liners. Ian had even given Mickey a nickname sign for the shortened ‘Mick’ he liked to use in text form so much. Gallagher’s family stayed making fun of their “will they/won’t they” bullshit, calling them the gay Ross and Rachel, whatever the hell that meant. Even Mandy was on his case now.

Mickey had finally introduced his sister to Ian once he’d been all stamped and approved, and off of parole. They’d both wanted to celebrate his freedom, so he reluctantly decided to let them both take him out at the same time. Mandy fucking loved Ian, because of course she did. Always commented on what a shame it was that he didn’t go for slimy vagina. Ian found her charming, because obviously he was into trashy people. They even talked to each other without him now. Had a whole text thread that excluded him, and who knows what the hell they said to each other there. How much they talked about him behind his back. Long story short, she wanted Mickey to bang Ian, since she couldn’t.

There was a vast conspiracy against their decision to remain friends.

Mickey chewed on his thumb as he paced, craving a cigarette. He’d cut back a lot recently, since it wasn’t really good for all the training. His lungs were lighter, although he hadn’t quit completely. He’d just been limiting himself to a few a day, very measured out. He’d just had his supposed final one for the day on his walk from the bus.

Fucking Ian. Giving him these cravings.

He looked around his room for something to occupy himself with, not really feeling anything. He had a book he was halfway through sitting on his nightstand, but he knew he’d never be able to concentrate right now. He’d probably just do that thing where he read the same two lines over and over without absorbing any of the words, like a dumbass.

Goddamn Ian. Taking over his space. Squeezing him out of his own routine.

Sure, that routine consisted of throwing himself across the sofa and turning on the TV while he loaded up on carbs, but whatever. It was the principle of it.

He decided to just ignore the living room part for now, and head to the kitchen. He could occupy himself with making pasta. He’d recently started doing this Alfredo thing that was pretty good. He took his laptop in there with him, so he could put something on in the background as a visual distraction, so he wouldn’t look at Ian through the cutout in the kitchen wall.

As soon as the garlic and onion was simmering in olive oil, Ian started getting interested, though, coming up to check on the various stages of sauce preparation: the chopped artichokes, the asparagus, the mushrooms, the chicken, the basil and rosemary and thyme, the small bottle of wine he’d had the discipline to purchase for cooking purposes only.

“Damn, Gallagher, aren’t you supposed to be diligently writing to your deadline?” signed Mickey, exasperated after the fifth brief visit to take a (sensual) whiff over his shoulder.

“It just smells really good. Guess I’m hungry.”

“Did I say I was making dinner for two?”

Ian’s mouth fell open, then he made a bit of a sad puppy face that Mickey hated.

“I make a big batch of food at once and it lasts me like three days,” he continued.

“So you’re not gonna offer me any at all?” asked Ian.

Mickey put his hands on his hips and tilted his head upward in a bid for patience, then signed, “You come into my house—”

“—on the day my daughter is to be married…” Ian interjected, gritting a grin.

Mickey literally stomped his foot in frustration as Ian laughed.

“—completely uninvited,” Mickey continued as if he wasn’t interrupted. “You kick your feet up, you make a mess, and then you have the audacity to try and get in on the dinner I’m making for me, myself, and I?”

“That’s not the way I remember the line. It’s a classic, Mick. ‘You ask me to do murder…’”

“You think I won’t Vito Corleone your stupid ass?” Mickey asked, grabbing the large kitchen knife and holding it up menacingly (while trying not be charmed by Ian’s idiot antics).

Ian seemed undaunted nonetheless. “You seem more like a Michael Corleone to me. But I’m definitely not a Fredo.”

Mickey sighed with a roll of his eyes, and tossed the knife back down on the cutting board, turning back to stir the sauce for a minute. Ian was still standing there when he turned around, arms crossed, looking like the cat who ate the canary.

“You’re something else, you know that?”

Ian nodded. “I do.”

“Fucking hate you.”

“You don’t.”

“You can have one small bowl, but that’s it. No seconds.”

Ian bowed sarcastically. “Thank you so much. Very generous of you, oh, benevolent one.”

“Now get out,” Mickey signed, picking up the knife once more and pointing it at him a final time in warning.

“So tough!” Ian laughed, then ran from the room as Mickey pretended to advance on him.

God, Mickey was so totally fucked. Or _not fucked_ , as it were. Wishing, and hoping, and thinking, and dreaming about being fucked, and then just… _not_. He really hated his life sometimes.

Once the sauce had the right consistency, and the fettuccine had boiled, dinner was ready, so he headed into the living room and told Ian to move all his crap off the table.

He fixed both their plates, bringing the salt and pepper grinders with him, then went back for two glasses of water. He was really trying to stay properly hydrated lately, and Ian was becoming more of a health nut everyday.

“This looks amazing, Mick,” signed Ian. “You’re gonna make a good househusband one day.”

And see, that was the kind of shit that Mickey really wanted to smack Ian upside the head for saying. The _implications_ of it.

“Say one more smart-ass thing, and I’ll throw your damn plate against the wall,” warned Mickey.

Ian had the gall to then pat him on the knee, pick up his fork, and start eating like nothing.

“Oh my god,” he signed after setting his fork back down. “Why have you never made this for me before?”

Mickey shrugged. “Not everything I do is for you, numbnuts.”

Ian ignored the barb. “You’re getting really good at this cooking thing, Mick. Really. Gonna have to start trading recipes.”

“Enough chit-chat. Eat your damn food.”

Mickey picked up the remote and flipped the TV on, pressing play on the first thing in his ‘continue watching’ queue, then proceeding to ignore his companion until he’d eaten every bite.

When he finally spared Ian another glance, he was leaning back into the cushions rubbing his belly and looking quite sated. _Goddammit_.

Ian turned to face him and Mickey snorted. There was a glob of Alfredo sauce in his beard right by the corner of his lip, and he looked so fucking adorably stupid.

“That beard really makes you a neanderthal, you know?” Mickey signed, leaning forward and daringly swiping the sauce off with his thumb.

Ian chuckled and stuck his tongue out to try and lick up whatever might remain. Mickey always forgot to grab paper towels. God, he really hated him so much. He reached over again, and just used his whole hand to smear across his beard.

Ian batted his hand away and stood. “Gonna go wash my face.”

Mickey just sat there powerless and stunned.

This just wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. It was unnatural to continue the charade.

He needed to kick Ian out, like, immediately.

“All I’ve got left is some editing,” Ian signed when he came back. “You mind if I finish up before I head out? Wanna make absolutely sure Franny and Debs are both in bed when I get home. Debbie will just wanna vent and I really don’t wanna hear it.”

“Couldn’t even if you wanted to, right?” Mickey smirked.

“Ha ha.”

Ian picked up both their plates and awaited Mickey’s approval.

“Yeah, man. Of course you can stay.”

Ian smiled, walking toward the kitchen, and Mickey leaned his head back on the couch with a big sigh, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands.

He always let Ian stay.

They had plans to meet up the following afternoon, once Ian had submitted his work, and Mickey had finished his own work for the day. Those weekday afternoons usually involved taking care of Franny for a while before they were free to do whatever, but Debbie was actually home when Mickey showed up, letting him in.

“Ian’s in the shower,” she signed.

Fucking great. Why wouldn’t he be?

Mickey settled in on the couch next to Franny, who was watching some show about animated dogs. She didn’t pay him any mind at first, but when she noticed him, she excitedly climbed onto his lap and patted his face with both hands in a grin. Mickey couldn’t help but smile back and bounce her on his knee.

“Getting too big for this,” he signed when he could get his hands free.

She just giggled.

Her head suddenly shot to the side, and she extricated herself to run into the other room. Debbie must’ve called her away for something exciting like a juice box or a mozzarella stick. Ian picked that time to emerge from the bathroom, and he must’ve made a calculated decision to come and greet Mickey before getting dressed, because he came from behind the sofa to saunter over with only a not-big-enough gray towel wrapped around his waist, hair still dripping rivulets of water onto his freckled chest.

What a dick move.

“Sorry, Mick,” he signed. “Running just a bit late. Had to make a couple last-minute edits.”

Mickey focused all his energy on looking Ian directly in the eye and not allowing his gaze to wander down to any other parts of his body. All he could do was nod like a simpleton.

“Just gonna get dressed,” Ian continued. “Do you know what you wanna do?”

Oh, he knew exactly what he wanted to do. But he couldn’t.

He shook his head.

Ian’s eyebrow quirked and he snickered. “Well… maybe pick something while you’re waiting?”

Mickey nodded again, wanting to slap himself out of his stupor.

Ian laughed and walked away, and if Mickey stared at his broad shoulders and tight ass as he left, that wasn’t really his fault.

He shook the cobwebs out of his head and tried to think of activities they could get themselves into out in the world at large. Not behind the closed door of a private bedroom. Even after all this time, it was still tough for Mickey to think of any social situations to put himself in that didn’t involve bars. Anything that included working up a sweat was also completely out of the question, because he wasn’t about to watch Ian making jump shots at the basketball court or some shit. Mickey knew he’d just find a way to throw his shirt off and then he would be double-fucked. Or double- _un_ fucked.

God, he could not get his mind out of the damn gutter today. It was getting really bad. _He_ was getting it real bad.

There was always the ol’ boring movie theater option, but even that seemed like a terrible idea. Sitting in the dark, accidentally brushing against each other on the arm rest, his mind betraying his ability to pay attention to the screen as it pined for the man beside him.

Even all the stupid hipstery shit that was starting to dominate social spaces, like old-school arcades, and axe-throwing places were built on going hand-in-hand with alcohol consumption. Why was Ian trying to put this dumbass decision on him? Mickey was the least creative person when it came to activities.

When Ian finally rejoined him, he was thankfully dressed, but still barefoot, holding his shoes and socks in one hand. His dampened skin still had that post-shower glow, and Mickey had to look away so he didn’t end up creeping.

Once Ian’s shoes were tied, he turned to Mickey excitedly. “I figured out the perfect thing for us to do tonight.”

Mickey gulped, curiosity piqued. “Perfect?” As if Ian was suddenly going to suggest they find the nearest place to finally bang it out.

“Yep.” Ian smiled wide. “When’s the last time you shot a gun?”

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up in interest. “Ain’t been allowed around firearms in a long-ass time.”

“But they don’t background or permit check at a shooting range if you’re renting.”

“True.” He grinned. “Would be nice to feel that power again. Even if the targets are just made of paper.”

Ian’s smile wavered, but he didn’t ask any questions.

Since Debbie was staying in for the night with her daughter, Ian took the car, cutting their transportation time way down.

By the time they were standing next to each other discharging bullets from cold, hard steel, Mickey felt exhilarated, yet strangely in his element. It really had been a while since he’d had a gun in his hand, but reflex memory was in full effect. He supposed it used to remind him too much of life with his father to think of it as a legitimate method of blowing off steam. Not to mention the whole ‘trying not to lead a life of crime anymore.’ But facts were facts, he was enjoying this. The might of it. The weight. The heat. The kickback as he felt the bullets leaving the chamber. It was more than thrilling.

After his first round was spent, he was satisfied enough that he’d managed to make half the hits within the body lines, even if there were no direct hits to any of the lethal zones. Then he made the mistake of glancing over at Ian’s target, which had a full round of direct body hits all to the head and chest.

He gaped at Ian as he reloaded, putting his own gun down and waving a hand to get his attention.

“What the fuck, man?” he signed.

Ian smiled and shrugged. “I’m a good shot.”

“Um, I can see that. Are you a secret assassin or some shit?”

“I told you I used to be in ROTC. Wanted to be a sharp-shooter in the army for a while.”

“That was like over a decade ago.”

“What can I say? I don’t shoot often, but my skills never diminish.”

“Well, suck a dick, cuz mine are rusty as hell.”

Ian looked at Mickey’s target sheet. “You didn’t do too bad. Want some pointers?”

Brief images flashed through his mind of Ian hovering behind him, cheesy movie style, front brushing against Mickey’s back while he taught him the proper stance, hot breath on his neck as Ian put his big hand around Mickey’s smaller one and they slowly squeezed the trigger together.

He licked his lips and flipped Ian off. “Been shooting guns since before your scrawny ass got a teenage military boner, so just mind your own business.”

Ian laughed and turned back to his gun. He looked kind of dopey in those big noise-canceling ear muffs and safety glasses, but that still didn’t prevent him from looking hot as hell. His tee shirt looked exceptionally tight today, and his arms flexing as he retook his pose with that weapon in his hand… it was maybe the most attracted he’d been to Ian thus far.

This was all backfiring in a way he should’ve been able to anticipate.

He forced his eyes away from the sexy sight of Ian wielding deadly force, and concentrated on reloading his gun and improving his accuracy. He was just going to have to go into full-on ignore mode so that he didn’t fuck around, mishandle the gun, and create a gigantic accident that would land him in hot legal water all over again.

He refocused his energy on those earlier feelings of pumping adrenaline and lost himself in the fun his former badass, wayward youth used to revel in. It was not the time to thirst over his best friend.

They went back to Mickey’s after, which ratcheted his nerves right back through the roof. He wondered if Ian could feel the thickness of the sexual tension the same way he could, or if he’d just forced himself to grow oblivious to it.

“Movie or TV show?” Ian signed as soon as his butt hit the sofa, picking up the remote and taking charge; right at home as usual.

Mickey just shrugged. “Whatever, man.”

He was probably going to end up zoning out on his obsessive Ian thoughts anyway, so all he wanted was something easily digestible. After 10 minutes of scrolling, Ian finally got irritated at the indecisiveness and just opted to continue watching _Looking_ , which Mickey wasn’t into at all, but Ian kept trying to shove down his throat. A few of the guys on it were pretty hot, but he couldn’t relate to their San Francisco Gay lives any more than he could relate to the dramatic lesbians on _The L Word_ , or some stereotypical straight romance on a cheesy network show about unrealistic relationships.

Ian was still hunting for a gay show that Mickey could get into. He’d tried _Schitt’s Creek_ , and _Please Like Me_ , and even _RuPaul’s_ fucking _Drag Race_ for some reason. They’d been a no, no, and another emphatic no. Ian thought this bullshit Elite Gay crap would be the one. And no. He just needed to accept the fact that Mickey was his own kind of special gay that just didn’t like much of what “gay culture” had to offer. If someone wanted to make a show about badass dudes who did whatever they wanted and happened to be homos, and that wasn’t the only plot, and it was actually his sense of humor, and maybe there was some violence, and maybe there was poverty or disability… that would be the show for him. Maybe one day he could convince Ian to write that show.

Mickey had boned up on Ian’s writing in the last few months, curious what his style was like, and how his inner thoughts worked beyond the things they talked about. He thought he had a lot of talent and promise. At first, Ian would only let Mickey read the stuff that was available online for mass consumption, but eventually he was convinced to allow him to read the fiction he was privately working on. The works in progress, still in the rough, unedited stages and all. And Mickey was more impressed with Ian than ever. He was witty, and creative, and smart… maybe somewhat intimidatingly so. And he definitely didn’t know his own worth. Didn’t think he was as good as he should be. Mickey wanted to throttle him for that. Try to beat it into him somehow that he had what it took.

But Ian was also a stubborn motherfucker. At the end of the day, he’d always listen to the inner negativity he fought so hard against. Mickey had finally come to understand what was wrong with Ian that required therapy, and meds, and treatments. He knew more details of his backstory, and he saw the trials and tribulations of what Ian suffered from. How hard finding the right medication was. The side effects of being on the wrong ones. The mood swings, the downturns, the meltdowns. He stopped looking at it as some kind of competition for who had it worse. And also started to realize that he'd just been burying his own mental health demons under several layers of substance and alcohol abuse since he was very young. Sometimes it scared it him when some professional would talk about how it inhibited brain development in teenagers. Wondered if that’s why he was stuck in this state of arrested development his entire adult life.

He’d fucked himself up good and proper. But Ian saw through all that. Still appreciated Mickey for exactly who he was. Didn’t try to change him, but merely to help him be better. He was pretty sure Ian had no idea how much Mickey looked at him as an actual lifesaver.

He’d probably be the same lonely loser who never did shit if Ian weren’t around. He probably wouldn’t have continued to work on himself in the context of therapy and support groups. When he’d left deaf group, Martin had referred him to a non-religious-talk version of AA that he sometimes attended, called SMART recovery. He’d done that anger management crap. He was developing some good habits and coping skills. He was on his way to maybe kinda sorta becoming a success story. Of course the possibility of relapse was always there. It always would be. He just had to manage it and not live in so much fear of it that he gave into his worst impulses.

He tried to pay attention to what was going on in the show, and Ian seemed rapt, but Mickey just rolled his eyes. It was a scene with the beardy guy that he couldn’t stand. The shitty artist type who believed his own hype. What a tool. Didn’t deserve his hot boyfriend.

He vaguely paid attention, while wishing he’d asked Ian to bring over some pot finally. They still hadn’t broken that seal. Ian told him to wait until he was absolutely sure and ready, and at least half a year had gone by. And here they were. He supposed he couldn’t have gotten away with bringing it to a shooting range, though.

But then, much to his chagrin, something started happening onscreen that piqued his interest. Patrick and Kevin were finally giving into their intense sexual chemistry and going for it. Oh shit.

He side-eyed Ian without moving his head, and the whole atmosphere crackled with pent up energy. His body felt stiff and frozen in place, but his heart rate ratcheted way up. He was very aware of himself and the person sitting next to him. Surely Ian must feel it too. Yet Mickey couldn’t bring himself to look over, because he was afraid of what would happen if he did. But the two hottest guys on the show were finally fucking right before their eyes, and Mickey had been insanely horny for so goddamn long now. He was getting bored and sad of his right hand and his bedside drawer toys.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ian actually turn to him first. So Mickey turned toward him too. There was definitely lust in Ian’s eyes, there was no doubt about it. And when Mickey’s gaze roamed lower, he caught all the signs that Ian was breathing heavily.

The look was enough, and the energy was real, because as soon as Mickey went in for a kiss, Ian did too. It was one of those genuine movie moments where both people just knew, and went for it at the same time, and met in the middle. It was so hot. This time Ian leaned into it, and didn’t pull away. He wrapped his large hands around Mickey’s head, eliciting a moan from the pressure. Mickey just wanted to have an excuse to feel up his fucking arms, so he did that at first, then smoothed his hands all the way up to Ian’s neck, pressing up against him more from their awkward side-by-side positions.

To finally full-on make out with Ian after so many months of wanting to was almost enough to satisfy his need. Did he want a hand on his dick and a cock up his ass? Yes. Did he expect to get those things right now? No. It was a minor miracle that Ian hadn’t put an end to the tongue-twisting yet. If Mickey tried to go for his cock, he might spook the fool all over again.

This kissing felt amazing. Ian was good at it, and the harsh breaths of air from his nose against Mickey’s face was somehow sexy as hell. It was such a relief to give in. Sometimes he felt like a virgin from some traditional family in the 1800s who wasn’t allowed more than a handshake until marriage. He could do with just Ian’s lips on his, even if he _was_ hard inside his pants. If Ian grabbed it, he would go along, but he had a feeling that wasn’t gonna happen.

Which it didn’t. They’d eventually disengaged, Ian looking extremely hot in his tousled state, lips moist and swollen.

Mickey figured he was about to get another lecture about how they shouldn’t do this, and the timing, and blah blah blah, but instead Ian just smiled. And then Mickey smiled. And then they both started laughing. It was the kind that made your belly almost ache, growing out of control just by pure absurdity.

It put Mickey at ease.

Ian scratched his beard and ran a hand through his hair. “Guess that was a long time coming.”

“Sure felt like a fucking eternity.”

Ian wagged his finger. “No fucking yet. Sorry.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “I kind of figured. Only reason I didn’t grab your dick.”

Ian laughed again. “It’s not like I didn’t think about grabbing yours, I just… still don’t think we should. It’s… it should be a year, right? I think a year is a good amount of time to wait.”

“It’s not like there aren’t people with issues in relationships, Ian. Millions of people have all kinds of bullshit wrong with them and still have partners.”

“Yeah, established relationships, sure. It's the whole starting one in the thick of it that can get people into trouble.”

“We’re together all the time anyway,” signed Mickey.

“I know. And I love that. But it’s not the same. I’m not ready, and even if you think you are, you should rethink. I still don’t think it’s good for you.”

“Sex is good for everyone, man. Not sure how you’ve been doing it.”

Ian smiled, but it wasn’t as bright as before. “It’s not just about sex and you know it. You’ve never even had a boyfriend. I’ve never even really liked any of the boyfriends I’ve had. A big part of me wants to just go for it, trust me. But I can’t right now. So I hope you don’t hate me.”

“Don’t be San Francisco Gay dramatic, okay? Obviously I won’t hate you. But what does this mean? We can make out now? No touching below the belt?”

Ian shook his head. “I don’t think so. That’s just a gateway to making bad decisions.”

“So we just pretend like nothing happened? _Again_? This is getting kind of old, man.”

Ian sighed and tipped his head back in thought.

“Maybe we could do stuff at a distance.”

Mickey’s whole face crinkled. “Do stuff at a distance? What the fuck does that mean?”

“Like, we could act like we’re in a long-distance thing and just sext each other.”

“You wanna start sexting me?”

Ian chuckled again with a shrug. “I don’t know. Just an idea. That way, it’s somewhere in between.”

“We see each other all the fucking time, man, how’s that gonna work? You wanna pretend like it’s not happening when we hang out?”

“I don’t know, okay! It was just an idea. You’re right, it’s probably really stupid.”

It was definitely stupid, but at the same time, it was the only hint of hope that Mickey had of actually getting some sort of Ian-related sexual/romantic/what-the-fuck-ever satisfaction in the foreseeable future. Whatever crumbs Ian’s dumb ass wanted to throw his way, he’d be even dumber not to take them.

“We can try it.”

“What if it gets weird?” asked Ian.

“You into weird shit?”

Ian punched his shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

“If it’s too weird, then we’ll stop.”

“And you won’t hate me?”

“Jesus Christ, Ian, how many times do I have to tell you that I won’t ever hate you? I’ll be whatever you want us to be.”

Ian looked a little speechless at that, then leaned forward one more time, and placed a simple, undemanding kiss on Mickey’s lips. It wasn’t hot like before, but rather _sweet_.

“Okay, Mick.”

Once the quite possibly harebrained decision had been made, it took a while for it to actually happen. It was like they were both scared to make the first move. Mickey wished he knew some way to break the ice, but it just wouldn’t come to him. He figured that Ian, being a writer, would be the initiator. But the texts were still the same friendly, slightly flirty, basic shit they always were.

Until the night that Mickey finally convinced Ian to bring his weed over.

“Are you sure about this?” Ian asked for the umpteenth time.

“Fucking, yes! I'm positive! It’s going to be fine. Two or three hits, and I’ll be high as fuck. It’s been a long-ass time.”

“I just don’t want to be the shitty enabling friend.”

“Do we really have to have this conversation again? I'm a big boy. I know what I’m about. Why do you think I haven’t just gone out and bought my own by now? It’s not an addiction thing. It’s a ‘take the edge off’ thing. Thought you were pro-weed despite your mental health advisor warnings, anyway? It’s okay for you, but not for me?”

“I trust you. Just don’t make me regret it.”

“It lessens my cravings for everything else, like I said. It’s like a bandaid.”

“Yeah, okay.”

So after all the fucking disclaimers and explanations they’d already been through about fifty times, Ian finally got high with him. As predicted, Ian was hilarious. Not in the sense that he was actually funny, but the silliness spilled over, and it was really cute to see. It made Mickey feel more relaxed around him.

The heady haze of smoking pot after a long abstention felt warm and welcoming. They put on weird cartoons, and talked about idiotic stuff, and serious stuff, laughing it all off in equal measure.

Mickey sank into the couch, more content than he’d been in a long time.

When Ian got home, he messaged Mickey, who was still feeling it…

> Remember that thing we said we’d do, but never did?
> 
> Is that some sort of riddle?
> 
> Okay, I’ll put it more plainly: I’m horny.

Mickey almost dropped the phone in surprise, fumbling for some kind of appropriate response, only ending up with something bland…

> Is that so?
> 
> Yeah, that’s what happens when you haven’t had sex in a long time, and you always hang out with the guy you wanna fuck, but can’t.
> 
> Not can’t. Won’t.
> 
> Semantics.
> 
> Well, what are you gonna do about it?
> 
> Are you still in on the pact or not?
> 
> I don’t recall it being a fucking pact, but if you’re asking if I’m still down for the dirty texting or whatever, then yeah. You want a blood oath?
> 
> Mmm, blood. That’s really hot, Mickey. Thanks for getting me going.
> 
> Lol. Sorry, I don’t know what the fuck to say. You’re horny, but you don’t wanna fuck.
> 
> I was thinking of jerking off.
> 
> Oh yeah? I’m familiar with that practice. I’ve heard that everyone does it.
> 
> Do you need to take some sort of lessons before we try doing this or what?
> 
> Lessons?
> 
> I was trying to be sexy, and you keep being your usual sarcastic self. So if I need to be more fucking explicit about it, then I will. I wanna jerk off. Do you wanna jerk off with me?
> 
> You literally just left my house.
> 
> OMG, MICKEY! I’M SERIOUSLY ABOUT TO TURN MY PHONE OFF.

Mickey snickered.

> Okay, okay. Excuse me for being weirded out at this coming out of nowhere, but okay. What the hell do you want me to do? Stroke it and tell you when I’m finished? I usually watch porn.
> 
> This is supposed to be the porn, Mickey. The words are supposed to be erotic.
> 
> I thought you were just gonna send me dick pics or something.
> 
> Do you want a dick pic?
> 
> Do I want a dick pic? Uhhhh… what gay guy doesn’t want a dick pic?
> 
> Will a dick pic actually get you to do this properly, or is this just what it’s gonna be?
> 
> I guess it depends how good the dick pic is.
> 
> MICKEY!
> 
> Lmao. I’m sorry. You’re just too easy. Actually, nah, if you were easy, we woulda banged at least 5 months ago.
> 
> Sounds like you don’t want a dick pic after all.

Fuck. He was already fucking this up. But this wasn’t the kind of thing that came naturally to him. And it _was_ kind of inherently funny.

> No, I do! I do.
> 
> Are you gonna reciprocate?
> 
> I mean, my dick isn’t my most impressive feature, tbh, but I’ll show it to you.
> 
> You can show me your ass too. If you want.
> 
> I knew you were a top.
> 
> And I’m hoping like hell that you’re a bossy bottom.
> 
> How have we never had this conversation?
> 
> I think we were trying to stop from jumping each other’s bones, remember?
> 
> True.
> 
> So?
> 
> Survey says, yes, I’ve been known to enjoy taking it.
> 
> Fucking knew it!!!!!!  😍🙌🏻
> 
> No you didn’t.
> 
> I suspected.
> 
> You dreamed.
> 
> And now my dreams are coming true.
> 
> Long-distance.
> 
> Look, this is the last time I’m gonna ask. Do you wanna do this or not?
> 
> Yeah. I do.

He was made to wait for 8 whole minutes, then he finally received an image file. He held his breath as he tapped it onto full-screen. Even without the context of some random life-sized object, Ian’s hand was enough to prove that he was packing. He was hard as hell, cut and pretty, the flesh a few shades darker than the rest of his skin. It was a nice cock, no tricks of the camera involved. Mickey could actually feel his mouth water, and his dick finally started to take an interest in the suggested activity.

He had his pants undone in no time, pulling them down to his knees, and using the opening at the front of his boxers to whip it out, balls and all. He immediately wet his hand and started stroking himself to hardness.

Then came the difficult task of photographing his stupid cock without making it look ugly or blurry. Sexting was a dumb game, but he was definitely gonna play. He might not be as big and juicy as Ian, but whatever. Ian told him he was more of an ass man, anyway.

He finally sent his image reply and waited for Ian to make the next move…

> Damn. It looks really hot hanging out of your boxers like that.
> 
> You’re fucking huge, man. Think I can take it?
> 
> You can definitely take it. Don’t act like you’re not a size queen.
> 
> Trust me, I feel like I hit the jackpot.
> 
> I can’t wait to fuck you with my big, hard dick.

Mickey’s hand sped up as he tugged himself. As if he hadn’t been having actual dreams about Ian fucking him for ages now, waking up in the dead of night with a raging hard-on, and cranking it out in 5 minutes or less.

> Can’t wait to feel it inside me. My ass is greedy.
> 
> Fuck. I really wanna see your ass. Your hole.

Er… that was a bit of a record scratch. How the hell was he supposed to position himself on this couch to get a photo of his ass while he was trying to jack off with his pants around his knees? But then he remembered that secure folder on his phone with the pics he’d saved from when he was trolling Grindr. He quickly swiped out of the conversation and clumsily searched for the hidden folder with the naked pics. It wasn’t easy to do with just his left hand, since he really didn’t want to stop what he’d started with his right. He hadn’t gotten this much action in so long. Even if it was just some static pictures and silly words. It was in tandem with another guy.

He finally located what he wanted, which were obviously previously taken pics much more tailored to look appealing, and less in-the-moment. He’d had the time to do an embarrassing sexy photoshoot of his nude self using mirrors and timers and shit. He sent Ian a tasteful one of his ass cheeks first.

> Yes. I knew it would be glorious. Looks meaty. Want it slapping against me while I pound the hell out of you.
> 
> Fuck yeah. Fuck my ass good and hard like I fucking like it.
> 
> I’m gonna give it to you harder and better than any other dude ever has. Mmm, I’m already leaking.

Ian sent another pic. It did indeed include glistening pre-cum, which was hot as hell.

> Wanna lick it off.
> 
> Want you to.
> 
> I suck a mean cock, Gallagher. Gonna make you moan and thrash.
> 
> I’m gonna shove your whole dick down my throat, and then I’m gonna flip you over and stick my tongue up your fat ass.
> 
> Oh shit.

Mickey toggled over to where he had one last dirty picture waiting. He was bent over, pulling his ass cheeks apart so that you could see his lubed up hole. It was right before he’d gotten too horny from taking the pics to not stick a dildo up his ass. He sent it off, waiting again for Ian’s reply…

> Oh god, Mickey, I’m gonna die.
> 
> No, you’re gonna cum.
> 
> Want you so bad. Your hole is so pretty and tight.
> 
> Been so long, it’s gonna grip you like a vice.
> 
> Fuck. I’m gonna come.

Mickey sat the phone down on the armrest and really went to town on himself, squeezing and rubbing as the ache grew and grew. His balls drew up tight, getting heavy, and he tugged on them with his left hand, his breathing erratic. He licked his lips and caught movement on his phone out of the corner of his eye. He glanced over to see Ian’s spent cock, cum splattered across his toned belly. And that sent him right over the edge.

He closed his eyes tight as his orgasm ripped through him, moaning unabashedly as he made a mess of his shorts.

He took a breather and wiped his hand on his pants before he picked the phone back up and replied:

> That was actually kinda hot.
> 
> Lol. It was. You’re hot, Mickey. Guess I get to tell you that now.
> 
> Bitch, I thought you were hot the first time I saw you. Thought you were an uptight twat, but a hot one. Your dick kicks it up a couple notches.
> 
> Your ass does you a few favors too.
> 
> So I guess it wasn’t weird.
> 
> Nope. But I do wish it were the real thing.
> 
> You can come back over right now if you want.
> 
> Lol. Nice try. Goodnight, Mick.
> 
> Oh, so you’ve used me for your personal pleasure, and then immediately give me the brush-off?
> 
> I need to clean up, don’t you?
> 
> Yeah, just fucking with you.
> 
> One day, Mick. One day.

He could only hope one of them didn’t get hit by a bus first.

  


  


**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and/or leave kudos if you enjoy it. 
> 
> [Follow me on tumblr if you want](http://thevioletjones.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Fic trailer by AnotherGallavichLove one more time](https://streamable.com/32is4d)


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